


The Everyday Fight

by Aurelia_Combeferre



Series: The Surgeon Verse [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 41
Words: 107,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4578156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurelia_Combeferre/pseuds/Aurelia_Combeferre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Eponine find out that they are about to become parents, shortly before they end up at the forefront of investigating an increasingly twisted and murderous human trafficking case.  Which innocents can they possibly protect first?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

****

**THE EVERYDAY FIGHT**

_Chapter 1: The Innocents_

_I_

There is no such thing as a ‘routine’ raid, especially for the precincts located downtown. ‘ _Nothing is routine when ambulance support is required,’_ Eponine reminds herself as she pulls a bullet proof vest over her black t-shirt. She can feel the sweat gathering under her collar even as she dons her white coat; as hot and uncomfortable as this may be outdoors on a cloudless day, it is necessary for her to remain in some sort of medical uniform for this venture, if only to be easily identified by her team mates as well as the people they are set to rescue.

The police inspector in charge of the operation eyes her sceptically, lingering particularly on the name embroidered on her coat. “I am surprised that the attorney did not personally endorse you,” he mutters as he fiddles with his gun belt.

“He follows the rules,” Eponine says calmly. “I already notified him that I was decked to this case, on short notice.”

“He still allowed you to be involved here?”

“It’s not within his jurisdiction.”

The policeman nods curtly. “You may move in when I give the signal. Till then, stay put with your crew.”

“Understood, Sir.” Eponine grits her teeth as she stands on the sidewalk, listening to the inspector briefing the rest of the police team. She can only hope that their strategy for securing the area will not result in more casualties to add to the already gravely ill and injured workers in this sweatshop hidden in a deceivingly well-kept bungalow.  She walks back to the ambulance parked at the corner of the street and nods to one of the EMTs accompanying her. “This is what we’ll do, Voisin. We’ll take care of the initial interviews and documentation right here, but only the most injured or sick patients go with us to Saint-Michel,” she tells him.  

Voisin nods slowly. “You think the halfway house can take the rest of them, Doc?”

“Right now we don’t have much of a choice in terms of facilities,” Eponine replies. Though she hasn’t been in this particular line of intervention for very long, she’s all too aware of how much still needs to be done in terms of social work and safety for the most vulnerable groups in this city. ‘ _It’s why we have sleepless nights,’_ she muses even as she absent-mindedly twirls her wedding ring.

Voisin bends to retie his shoelaces. “You’re going to be following up this case all week….your exam week,” he points out. “Are you going to deck this case to a junior resident?”

“Just to help, but in the end the papers still go through me. I may as well see this through from start to finish,” Eponine replies. She glances back towards where several agents have now taken up their positions outside the bungalow, making sure to cover all the doors and windows. The doctor bites her lip as she watches the policemen now signalling to each other, clearly waiting for their cue to either break down the doors or open fire. There is no way this will be a completely bloodless rescue.

The afternoon air is still for a single moment before suddenly a shriek followed by a shot pierces the quiet. Four young women rush out from the house’s back door, and one of them almost collapses before reaching the fence. Eponine immediately grabs a tackle box from the ambulance and runs to them. “How many are you?” she asks rapidly as she checks the fainting woman’s breathing and pulse.

“Fifty,” one of the other captives says frantically. “Not all of them can walk.”

“Give her some oxygen, now, and get the others clear,” Eponine instructs the EMTs. She looks up to see the inspector already waving to her to run into the house. “Have you found them?” she asks.

“They say the basement,” the inspector barks before cocking a gun and rushing to chase someone out of the bungalow’s back door.

‘ _Where could it possibly be?’_ Eponine asks herself as she makes her way to an adjoining room. The astringent reek of paint thinner and toluene almost makes her head spin but she fights back the urge to gag as she searches for any hidden doors or passages. She tentatively knocks twice, then thrice on a wall, then breathes a sigh of relief when she hears a shout from someplace in the room. “Where are you?” she calls in a stage whisper as she raps the wall again. This time she follows the sounds of footsteps and hushed voices to a section of wall covered by a sheet of dirty canvas. She quietly rips away the canvas to expose a hastily nailed on plywood panel. The voices are loudest here, more so when she knocks on the wall.

By this time more police officers have arrived at the scene. One of them retrieves a chair from a nearby room and swings this at the wall, effectively making a hole in the board. Eponine helps pull the pieces away enough to make an aperture large enough for someone to climb into. The stench of vomit and blood is overwhelming but Eponine grips the tackle box more tightly before stepping into this secret room. “I’m a doctor. I’m here to help,” she tells the crowd of women who mob the entrance.

“Where are the watchers?” one of the oldest ladies asks frantically as she seizes Eponine’s arm.

“Away. The police are taking care of them,” Eponine replies. Everyone here looks as if they haven’t slept all night, and a few are in dire need of a shower. ‘ _Not a single decent stitch of clothing on them, and yet they spend all day sewing shirts and jeans,’_ she notes as she follows this spinster down a narrow stairway towards a room filled with rows of sewing machines. At the far end of the room are twelve people lying on dirty pallets; five of them are awake but staring listlessly at the ceiling, while the rest are fast asleep. It is not the worst that Eponine has ever seen, but it is horrific enough to have her running in order to buy what precious seconds she can.

One of these unfortunates, a girl of about seventeen, cries on seeing Eponine. “Am I going to die?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Eponine says as she kneels by this patient’s bed and starts examining her for injuries. She knows better than to make promises to this child or to anyone else, especially in a place like this. Within a few minutes the EMTs and some of the police officers are with her, helping administer medications or move the patients to the upper floor and then soon, to outside the house.

As Eponine is helping out the last patient through the door she hears a curse followed by the sound of someone spitting. “Bitch! You’re going to wish you never came here!” roars a man sporting a torn shirt and a bloody nose.

Eponine wipes off the spittle from her face as police officers collar this suspect. “Tell that to whoever asked you to set up shop.”

Voisin whistles from the ambulance. “Doc, we’ve got to bring three. Anyone more?”

Eponine looks over the crowd of patients now being guided to a large van to bring them to a halfway house near the precinct. “We’re good.” As she walks to the ambulance she brings out her phone to send a voice mail. She takes a deep breath and sighs with relief before speaking. “It’s done. I’ll see you later.”

_II_

Even in the middle of a long and tedious meeting, Enjolras doesn’t miss the sound of the arrival of a voicemail. It is hours before he can pay proper attention to it, while he is already through with his last appointment for the day. A smile briefly crosses his face as he listens to the message, but he immediately pockets his phone before anyone can notice. ‘ _First we take care of the survivors, and then we build the case,’_ he decides silently as he starts driving to Saint-Michel Hospital.

He walks through the lobby and past the emergency room towards a door marked _Office for Social Interventions._ He knocks twice before pushing the door open, only to find Eponine ending a phone call. She looks his way and smiles brightly. “You’re a little early today, Auguste.”

“Actually you’re thirty minutes into your overtime,” Enjolras points out as he crosses the room to her desk. He leans in to slip his arms around her, just as she suddenly she reaches up to catch his lips with hers in a brief but nonetheless cheeky kiss. “What was that about?” he asks as he brushes her hair out of her face.  

She clasps his wrists tightly.  “Immigration. I’m taking charge for documentation and medical care for the people we rescued today, but anything about asylum and having them stay on as witnesses will have to come from _your_ desk.”

“Sounds fair,” he concurs as he feels her let go of his hands so he can pull up a chair next to the desk. “How many?”

“In the end, forty-nine. One was shot before we got there,” Eponine says morosely. “That might change. We got there in the nick of time, just barely for some.”

“What do you mean?”                       

“I had to send two of the worst off all the way to the ICU. You know how it sometimes goes.”

Enjolras nods slowly, knowing better than to say anything to this. “I will have to go to the halfway house tomorrow morning before meeting the fiscal.”

“You’re going to need this then,” Eponine says. She opens a drawer and puts an envelope on the table. “It’s the preliminary report for the rescue. The halfway house will have some records by tomorrow but you’re only going to get the medical abstracts from here after the patients are discharged.”

“That sounds like a lot of work,” he comments as he puts the envelope in his briefcase.

“I’m endorsing that to the resident on duty since my leave officially starts _now_.” She grabs some forms from her desk. “It will only take a few minutes.”

“Do you want me to get you a medium or large mocha in the meantime?” Enjolras offers as he gets to his feet.

Eponine grins widely. “I’m not really in the mood for coffee. Maybe some hot chocolate.” She kisses his cheek and hugs him tightly. “You’re the best.”

“I thought I was the bane of your existence, Eponine.”

“You are, but that doesn’t mean you’re _only_ that.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at this, making her chuckle even as she leads him out of the office. He’s not sure how he makes Eponine laugh so easily, considering that he often has quite the opposite effect on many people. Yet he’s not about to question this, especially when everything has been going so well in the first month of their marriage.

Within a quarter of an hour Eponine has already signed out for the day and they are on their way to Grantaire and Prouvaire’s home. Their friends’ terrace apartment is more studio than dwelling, a place wherein Grantaire’s numerous experiments with color on board and canvas mingle with Prouvaire’s stacks of notebooks and his ever growing collection of miniature gardens. ‘ _Now there’s another element in this mix,’_ Enjolras realizes when he sees taped to the door a drawing of large trucks on a roadside. “Are we late, Grantaire?” he greets the artist when the latter opens the door.

“Only for the moving. Gavroche, Bahorel, Bossuet, and Feuilly were here but they’re out buying ramen now,” Grantaire says cheerily as he pulls his friends into the apartment. The change here is stunning; instead of heaps of discarded papers and pools of paint, there is now a clean floor, soft but sturdy chairs, as well as drawers that apparently now hold all the curiosities and artwork that had been lying around here. A small whiteboard hangs on one wall. “What do you think of what we did?”

“I’m not sure whether to say you two grew up or aged down,” Eponine quips, gesturing to the plastic picnic table that has replaced the card table in the corner. “Where’s Darren?”

“Over there with Jehan,” Grantaire replies, shooting a glance to the poet napping on the sofa, with a dark haired boy dozing on his chest. The child is skinny and looks almost lost in his denim overalls and striped socks, and his thin fingers seem to be clutching Prouvaire’s shirt for dear life. “Did I tell you guys that Darren has hearing problems?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “What exactly do you mean?”

“The audiologist said it’s something called sensorineural deafness. It’s probably congenital,” Grantaire says seriously. “He might be able to use one of those cochlear implants someday but now he’s pretty reliant on sign language.”

“Who taught him?” Eponine asks.

“The other kids at the orphanage,” Grantaire explains with an incredulous smile. “Jehan and I have been taking lessons, but we’re still trying to keep up. That whiteboard there is for everyone else.”

“In the meantime,” Eponine says. “We have time to learn sign language too.”

“A _little_ time,” Enjolras points out.

“Since when did a jam-packed schedule faze you?” Eponine scoffs.

Before Enjolras can say anything to this he catches sight of Darren stirring on the sofa. “How do we greet him?” he asks in an undertone.

“Watch,” Grantaire says as he goes over to the couch. He kneels in front of Darren so that he can make eye contact with the youngster. Darren smiles and then begins making rapid gestures, pointing at least once to Enjolras and Eponine. “He’s saying hello and asking who you are,” Grantaire translates.

“We’re your dads’ friends,” Eponine replies, also crouching now to look at the boy.

Grantaire signs back more slowly, as if he is spelling something out to Darren, who nods slowly by way of reply. “I told him that, and your names,” he explains.

“I see,” Enjolras notes. If he wasn’t absolutely certain that he was wide awake, he would easily dismiss as an absurd dream the sight of Grantaire caring for a child. ‘ _Everyone could imagine Prouvaire doing such a thing, but not this,’_ he muses even as he hears a knock on the door again.

“Are we at the right place? The door is painted and I don’t smell ramen,” Courfeyrac quips as he holds the door open for Azelma, who is carrying Alexandra. He grins on seeing Darren. “Hello there little guy!”

“He can’t hear you,” Eponine informs her brother-in-law as she hands the whiteboard to him. “You look great, Zel,” she greets her sister.

“Thanks. At least the extra weight is mostly in one pretty good place,” Azelma says, motioning to her chest. She kisses Alexandra’s nose when the baby begins to yawn. “Hey there Alex. You want to say hi to your aunt Ponine or your uncles?”

“You sure you’ll let me hold her?” Eponine asks worriedly.

“You’re a doctor, you’ve held more newborns than I have,” Azelma points out.

“It’s _different_ when it’s family,” Eponine mutters but all the same she does not hesitate to pick up Alexandra and cradle her against her chest. “Sorry if my clothes still smell a little funny, Alex,” she says when she sees the baby grimace and sneeze.

In the meantime Prouvaire yawns and stretches on the sofa. “When did you all get here?” he asks before yawning again. He looks to Darren, who is staring confusedly at something Courfeyrac is drawing for him. “Not like that. You don’t have to play Pictionary with him,” he remarks before going over to help Darren and Courfeyrac out.

Grantaire grimaces at Courfeyrac’s scribbles. “Alexandra draws better than you.”

“Alex can....hey, I _have_ studied art!” Courfeyrac protests.

“Studying is one thing, dexterity is another!” Grantaire cackles as he dodges a throw pillow that Courfeyrac lobs in his direction.

“That is precisely why you’re in law and not in art, darling,” Azelma chimes in.

“I’m cut to the core,” Courfeyrac says dramatically, flinging his hand to his forehead in a way that has even Darren laughing loudly. “By you of all people.”

“I’m only being cruel to be kind, love,” Azelma points out over the sound of yet more knocking on the door. “Finally, there are more adults,” she jokes as she sees Grantaire let Cosette, Marius, and Elodie into the apartment.

Elodie runs up to Enjolras and hugs him around his waist. “Mister Enjolras! You’re not late to the party!”

 “Of course not. Your uncles would be upset if I was,” Enjolras says candidly as he steps back to get a good look at the nine year old. It only seems like yesterday when he and Eponine were defying all the odds just to make sure that she would be safe, healed, and living with a family that truly cared for her. “You’re starting to grow fast, kid,” he observes, seeing that Elodie now stands only a few inches below his shoulder.

Elodie looks down. “Not up here,” she says, pointing to the side of her head. “I’m stupid in Math.”

“It’s only one pop quiz, Elodie,” Cosette calls, clearly having overheard this. “Now come here and say hello to your cousin Alex.”

Enjolras watches Elodie run off to where Cosette, Eponine, and Azelma are cooing over the baby. “It’s not just one quiz,” he says as he catches Marius’ worried look.

“She’s been behind in those speed tests for arithmetic, and she still has problems with coordination, so she’s also lagging a bit in PE,” Marius confides. “At least she’s always making progress.”

‘ _But not fast enough for her,’_ Enjolras realizes. “That aside....how is she?”

“Good. Very good. She’s such an angel,” Marius says more proudly. “I don’t know what Cosette and I would do without her.”

In the meantime Elodie kisses Alexandra’s forehead before running off to where Darren is avidly watching Prouvaire and Courfeyrac arranging a plate of nachos to resemble a smiley face. “Hi, my name is Elodie. I heard your name is Darren,” Elodie chirps as she holds her hand out. However the little boy only stares at her for a moment before turning away and burrowing his face into Prouvaire’s sleeve. Elodie gapes at him for a moment and bites her lip, as if unsure what to do. “Uncle Jehan, why is he so scared of me?” she asks Prouvaire.

“He just can’t hear you, sweetie,” Prouvaire consoles her.

Elodie’s brow furrows. “You mean he’s deaf?”

“Elodie, that’s not very polite!” Cosette chides her daughter. “Jehan, I’m sorry about that.”

“She didn’t mean to be rude,” Prouvaire says amiably. “The word you’re looking for is hearing impaired. That means Darren can hear just a little, but it’s not enough,” he explains to Elodie. He pulls Darren on his lap before signing to him till he nods understandingly. “I’m just telling him it’s going to be okay.”

Elodie wiggles her fingers. “How did you do that?”

“It’s called sign language,” Prouvaire says as he takes Elodie’s hand and guides her fingers to make one sign after another. “This is how you spell your name: E-L-O-D-I-E.”

“Do you have to spell everything like that?”

“No. Different signs stand for different words. Darren knows a lot of them. He also understands writing too, so don’t worry.”

“That’s good!” Elodie pronounces before fetching the whiteboard and a marker in order to begin writing to the little boy.

“You two are doing it right,” Eponine remarks proudly, sharing a smile with Cosette. “She really is your own now.”

In short order the rest of their friends arrive with the ingredients for this night’s batch of ramen, as well as some gifts for Darren. The evening passes almost too quickly for everyone’s liking, but there is no denying the need to study for exams, prepare for cases, or simply let the youngsters sleep. By nine in the evening Grantaire has to carry little Darren to his room, which becomes pretty much everyone’s cue to end the party, wash the dishes, and go home.

“How late are you planning to stay up?” Enjolras asks Eponine as soon as they are back home and readying for bed.

“Maybe another hour,” Eponine replies as she scoots onto their bed, one hand clutching her tablet.

“No plans of burning the midnight oil?” Enjolras asks incredulously as he checks his watch, which only reads half past ten.

“I’ve had a long day, and anyway there’s only so much paperwork I can take after a certain hour....unlike some people.”  

“It comes with the territory.”

Eponine laughs as she snuggles up to him. “You be careful tomorrow. Those sweatshop overseers were rather rough, and I’m sure they weren’t working alone,” she says more pensively.

“They’re in custody, and I have yet to build the case,” Enjolras reminds her. With matters still so nebulous and uncertain, there is no need to unduly worry his wife especially at such a busy time. He kisses her before picking up a book of his own to read.  “All will be well.”

She nods before pulling the covers over them. “I’m sure. I love you Auguste.”

Enjolras pulls her closer before beginning to read, but it’s not long till he feels Eponine’s breathing grow light and even at his side. He carefully sets aside his book and her tablet before adjusting the blankets around them for warmth. “Good night Eponine,” he murmurs before turning off the bedside light. He doesn’t hear her reply but the way her hand comes up to meet his is already an answer enough.


	2. Chapter 2

****

**_2: The Trepidation of Making Differentials_ **

Although Eponine has seen many older colleagues and mentors prepare and successfully pass the specialty board finals for trauma surgery, she still cannot quite ignore the unease welling up in her gut on the morning of her own examination. ‘ _It is only one test. You’ve had years to prepare for this,’_ she reminds herself as she finalizes her case notes for the oral presentation. If she is to look at this situation from a broader viewpoint, then every surgery she’s done has been a test even more important than this upcoming examination.  ‘ _The operating room doesn’t run by paper and pen after all.’_

She takes a deep breath as she hears Combeferre being called in for his own examination before the panel.  Even from where she is seated she can practically feel the nervousness that courses through her colleague’s fingers as he tries to keep his hands in his pockets. ‘ _At least he hasn’t been queasy all week,’_ she thinks. It’s not the first time that she’s had such a reaction to such stress; she’s long learned to offset the acid churning or having her monthly periods thrown a few days off schedule.

She only has time to review her notes once more before she hears someone call her name. “Doctor Thenardier-Enjolras!” An usher standing near the door of the examination room nods to her. “We’re ready for you, Ma’am.”

“It’s mutual,” Eponine quips dryly as she picks up her examination booklet and follows the usher into the next room. This place is bare save for a long table where three of the country’s best known trauma experts are conferring over another examinee’s work. Nevertheless she clears her throat as she stands before the table. “Good morning Doctor Beaufort, Doctor Chu, Doctor Goodman,” she greets, making a slight but polite nod.

Doctor Beaufort, the oldest surgeon on this panel, nods warmly. “First off, congratulations on your recent marriage,” he says, shaking her hand firmly. “Are you ready to discuss your case?”

Eponine nods despite the odd feeling of something twisting in her stomach. “Yes Doctors. My patient is known as IVA, a 22 year old male presenting after a motor vehicular accident. Mechanism of injury: motorcycle versus station wagon. Time and date of injury: one-thirty in the morning, on May 1, 2015. Place of injury....” she begins even as she fights the urge to swallow hard and combat the rising feeling of being sick. “Place of injury is at the 34th Avenue Sea Wall.”

Doctor Chu sets down his pen. “Are you indisposed, Doctor Enjolras?”

“I’m fine,” Eponine replies quickly. She grips her examination booklet tightly if only to distract herself from the lingering nausea as she continues to discuss her case from its history all the way to her intended surgical plans. All the while she can feel the cold sweat gathering in her hair, and there are a few moments wherein she’s pretty sure she’s going green in the face while she is being questioned about some details concerning the case.

When at last the panellists begin to confer among themselves, the seconds suddenly seem interminable as she waits for them to finish their discussion. “Do you have anything more to add?” Doctor Goodman asks Eponine.

“No, thank you very much,” Eponine says tersely, doing all she can not to grimace at the sourness she can taste at the back of her throat.

Doctor Goodman nods. “Then you may wait for our deliberation. Thank you Doctor Enjolras.

“Thank you,” Eponine says quickly before walking briskly out of the room. She has to take short breaths as she rushes to the restroom and into the nearest stall, getting there only a second before she has to retch. She is shaking and nearly on her knees as she grips the toilet bowl once she’s through letting up what had been her breakfast. Normally it never gets this bad.

 “Eponine? The others said you were in here,” Combeferre calls concernedly over his loudly knocking on the door. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, give me a moment!” Eponine shouts as she flushes the toilet. She goes to the sink to rinse out her mouth, all the while surveying herself in the mirror. ‘ _It can’t be food poisoning,’_ she realizes. After all the coffee, cereal and milk had been just fine at breakfast. She puts a hand to her neck to check if she is febrile, but there is no unusual warmth there. For once she is startled that she does not feel the pounding in her temples that heralds the onset of a migraine. After one last check in the mirror she takes a deep breath and quits the washroom.

Combeferre is waiting nearby, holding out a bottle of water. “Do you need anything? I can give you a ride back to your home or to Saint-Michel,” he offers.

She shakes her head as she grabs the drink. “I’m fine now, but thanks anyway. I just have to run a few errands, so I can manage on my own,” she replies. “I’ll even be at the barbecue at the Fauchelevents’ place tonight, don’t worry.”

He looks at her doubtfully. “You weren’t nervous back there, were you?”

“I do _not_ get the nerves,” Eponine retorts as she finds a seat. That aside, there is one possibility that she cannot simply dismiss, and it will take more than her powers of deduction to confirm. ‘ _Getting tired and throwing up are things that do happen, but not necessarily with getting a delayed period,’_ she notes. She buries her face in her hands as she considers this last fact; the truth is that she is not just a few days but more than a month delayed. ‘ _And in all that time you’ve gone and done a number of dangerous things,’_ she berates herself.

She almost does not hear the usher calling her name as well as the rest of the examinees, and so she has to run to keep up with the group being ushered into the examination room. Doctor Beaufort is grinning from ear to ear as he hands over an envelope. “Congratulations. You did very well.”

“Thank you Doctor Beaufort,” Eponine says gratefully. She feels a rush of relief and elation as she takes a look at the certificate of her admission to the Society of Trauma Surgery, as well as her high marks on the exam. All the same she can’t deny the feeling of her heart pounding against her ribs as she congratulates Combeferre and their fellow surgeons, before she hurries down to the pharmacy.

Once she is there Eponine quickly grabs five different pregnancy tests and practically shoves them onto the counter. The cashier tries to keep a straight face as she gets a look at Eponine’s purchases. “Any congratulations in advance?”

“Let me congratulate myself first,” Eponine says as she hands over her payment. Since she has the rest of the day off from work she decides to head home, if only to rest and perhaps calm down a little. Yet despite the comfort of her surroundings she can’t stop her hands from shaking as she opens up the tests and follows the instructions on each packet. She leaves the five little sticks on the bathroom counter and sits on the tiled floor, hugging her knees to her chest. ‘ _At least you’re finding out this way and not in the aftermath of an accident,’_ she thinks, recalling how Azelma received the same sort of news under more uncomfortable circumstances.  

She only dares to take a peek after fifteen minutes, and she feels as if her heart is in her throat as she looks at the pink lines and plus signs that all point to a single outcome. “ _You’ve probably known for some time, at the back of your mind at least_ ,” she realizes as she sets down the five sticks and washes her hands. There is one person she has to tell, at least before setting out for the evening’s revelry. “Not over the phone or voicemail,” she resolves firmly.

It is only as she is washing her face and changing into more comfortable clothes that she allows her thoughts to take a different turn. ‘ _This is going to be one beautiful kid,’_ she can’t help thinking even as she pictures a little boy with curly hair and dark eyes. Her breath catches as she imagines this child cradled against her chest on late nights, or running up to Enjolras and calling him “Papa”.  The thought of having inadvertently harmed their child by way of occupational hazards is almost enough to send her into a panic, but she has to be strong especially if her worst fears do come true. “We’re going to be fine,” she whispers as she puts her hands on her stomach, which is still so deceptively flat. “Maybe I’m not doing everything right; I already think I’ve done something horribly wrong and I’m so, so, sorry. But I swear I’ll do anything to make sure you’re okay. I promise that.” She knows that it is too early to expect to feel anything, but she likes to think her words are still understood.

In the meantime she takes the opportunity to head down to the grocer’s to pick up some supplies as well as some dessert for the party at the Fauchelevents’. When she gets home she finds the apartment door unlocked, and as she opens the door she catches sight of Enjolras walking out of the bathroom. “Eponine, are those sticks on the bathroom counter what I think they are?” he asks perplexedly as he goes to help her with the groceries.

Eponine pales as she realizes what he is referring to. “You weren’t supposed to see those!”

His eyebrows shoot up for a moment. “What do you mean? They were out in plain sight.”  

“I was going to tell you right away, but not like this!” She sets down the bags she is carrying onto the kitchenette counter and takes a few deep breaths, if only to try to calm her racing heartbeat. “I thought that all this getting tired and a bit queasy was just exam stress. The thing is that I’m more than a month late with my period. The last time I had it was just after my birthday at the beginning of April. If I do the math, I’m about six or seven weeks along.” 

Enjolras nods slowly, clearly trying to let this news sink in. “That’s even before our wedding.”

 She rolls her eyes at this less than helpful statement. “Remember that I had a few drinks then? If I had known, then I wouldn’t have....” she trails off as she can feel that overwhelming sense of guilt welling up again. “I’m so stupid. I’m a doctor and I should have been more careful.”

Enjolras’ brow furrows with worry. “Been more careful about what?”

“The drinking, the x-rays I’ve been using in the OR, the dangerous stuff I come across at work, even the rashes that some of my patients get...it’s all risky. All this while I’ve been endangering this baby.” The thought is so horrifying that she almost feels sick, but she wills herself to ignore the nausea. “What kind of mother am I going to be if I’m so irresponsible?”

He shakes his head.  “You’re the last person I’d give that attribute to.”

She manages a smile at this roundabout compliment. “And you aren’t angry that it’s so sudden. We weren’t planning this, not at all.”

“It would have happened eventually,” he reminds her as he closes the distance between them and clasps her arm. “Maybe you ought to talk to Chetta about this later at the party. I’m sure her opinion will be very useful.”

Eponine shakes her head. “I think I ought to schedule an appointment with her tomorrow instead,” she says flatly. “It’s more professional that way.”  

“Point taken,” he concurs. His smile is tentative but nonetheless joyous as he meets her gaze. “We’ll figure this out. It’s going to be fine.”

She hugs him tightly, drawing on the sureness and calm that is in each and every word of his. “This kid is so lucky to have you as a dad.” 

Enjolras presses his lips to her brow and the corner of her mouth even as one of his hands comes to rest on her midsection. “Not as lucky as he or she will be to call you ‘Mom’.”

The thought makes her feel warm all over as she buries her face in his shoulder. She feels him relax against her, and that’s enough for her to feel that perhaps they can get this right after all. “You do know you just signed up for bringing up a little hell raiser?” she muses aloud. “There is no way that this kid will escape your stubbornness.”

Enjolras smirks at this quip before lifting her chin to kiss her again. “If it’s your hell raiser too, then I’m more than up for the challenge.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

****

**_3: The Odds of the Worse Outcomes_ **

When Musichetta finally emerges from her own exam, she is surprised that her legs can still hold her up. “Good thing I am _never_ doing that again,” she mutters under her breath as she tosses her bag into her car and then gets into the driver’s seat. The exhilaration she should be feeling after having succeeded at such a monumental test is there, but mingled with that aggravating self-deprecation that often comes with handling an equivocal case. ‘ _There are too many opinions in Medicine and one has to choose the one that allows the patient to live,’_ she reminds herself.

The truth is that she is lucky as far as her specialization is concerned. Obstetrics may be messy, but for the most part the outcomes are straightforward. It is more than she can say for Marius’ work in neurology or even Joly’s in infectious diseases. Musichetta sighs as she checks her watch; it is only two in the afternoon, and chances are Joly is not yet done with his exam, while Marius, Combeferre, and Eponine have probably headed home or to their respective errands. There will be time this evening to talk of their battle scars, so she heads down instead to the _Megaplate Diner_ , located just two blocks away from the human rights commission’s office.

She finds Bossuet seated near the window, furiously sending a text message. “Looks like a bad case,” she remarks as she saunters in.

“Nah, it’s a new lead. Bahorel got a nasty note at the office and he’s not letting it slide,” Bossuet says as he puts down his phone. “How did it go?”

“Terrible, awful,” Musichetta mutters. “Of all the cases to discuss, I draw the one that involves an auto-immune complication.”

“Auto-immune, wait....the body attacking _itself?”_ Bossuet asks.

Musichetta nods. “So I had to explain that, in addition to everything about being pregnant to begin with. Now everything has to be explained down to a molecular level and usually I’m cool with that. But auto-immune diseases are a _bitch_ , since there are so many things wrong, and too few actual solutions.” 

Bossuet sighs sympathetically as he toys with a wayward curl on her forehead. “You still passed otherwise I would have seen you with mascara running.”

“I made sure to go waterproof today,” Musichetta retorts.

Bossuet snorts. “It was a luck of the draw exam, Chetta. You can’t be too hard on yourself.”

“That’s true, but what if somewhere down the road, I get that one case like the one I was told to discuss today?” Musichetta asks. “I won’t be the resident asking for clearance from the consultant, but this time I’ll be the consultant calling the shots.”

“I thought there was a co-management and referral system for complicated cases in Saint-Michel, that’s why you and Joly team up a lot.”

“Yeah but you still have to know your stuff before sharing the case, otherwise that’s called slacking off.”

Bossuet tugs on the curl and watches it spring back. “You trip, you get up, and then become a bad-ass OB. How’s everyone else doing?”

“No word yet,” Musichetta said. She glances at her phone. “That can’t be good. At least Eponine would have called, you know how she is.”

“The Chief said he’s not heading back to the office after today’s hearing. Maybe he and Eponine are privately celebrating?” Bossuet asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“While we’re on that topic, you owe _both_ me and Patrice after the barbecue tonight,” Musichetta says, nudging his elbow. “Don’t you dare disappoint us.”

Bossuet grins. “Yes Ma’am.”

Musichetta sighs happily just a moment before she feels her phone vibrate in her pocket. “Hello Florence. I thought you’d be in lectures,” she greets.

“I sent my class on a research break,” Florence replies. She takes a deep breath. “So how are you? How was your exam?”

“I passed but I’ve done better. How’s Combeferre?”

“He made it too, but he said that it wasn’t up to a ‘chief resident’s level’.”

Musichetta winces, knowing all too well how stringent Combeferre is as far as his personal standards are concerned. “So what’s he doing now?”

“He’s going jogging with me. That’s supposed to be therapeutic, right?”

“Yeah. Get those endorphins flowing. Have you heard from anyone else?”

“From the looks of it, Eponine didn’t have a good time of it either but Daniel isn’t elaborating,” Florence says. “What about Joly?”

“Still waiting,” Musichetta replies, signing to a waiter to bring over a menu. “So are you guys still going later to the Fauchelevents?”

Florence sighs. “I’ll drag Daniel there if I have to. He needs to get this out of his system. See you guys.”

Musichetta waits for the click of the call ending before she picks up the menu. She notices that Bossuet is sending yet another message. “That, I take it, is Patrice.”

“Yeah, he just passed the exam but he needs time to himself and takeout from here,” he explains. “He’ll meet us at the Fauchelevents.”

“Damn,” She mutters as she sends a text message to Joly and then begins checking the menu for the perfect comfort food. “Five cheese linguine special, with a double order of fresh potato chips. Nothing like carbohydrate loading to banish a less than perfect day.”

He nods. “Double for a day that is completely shot. I hope that Marius fared better in his finals, otherwise we will have one heck of a pity party tonight.”

“I’m counting on you law boys as well as Prouvaire and Grantaire to make sure that doesn’t happen,” she says. Knowing their group of friends, they will find something to celebrate, or at least raise mocking toasts to. ‘ _It’s one of the better ways of hanging on to sanity,’_ she realizes as she and Bossuet signal to the waiter to take their orders.

After their meal they make their way to the Fauchelevent residence, and arrive there at around five in the afternoon. Elodie meets them at the door and motions for them to be quiet. “Papa is sleeping,” she says in a stage whisper. “Mama said _not_ to wake him up till the party later!”

“Your dad has been studying a lot, hasn’t he?” Musichetta asks as Elodie leads them into the house. She clucks her tongue at the sight of Marius curled up under a blanket on the sofa. “Maybe too much.”

Elodie nods. “He woke up so late today and ran out of the house without having breakfast. Mama was worried if he’d get there on time.” She hops up to the couch and puts a hand on Marius’ forehead. “At least he doesn’t have a fever.”

Marius stirs and groans. “Hey Elodie, what are you doing?”

“Making sure you’re not sick. Who takes care of doctors when they get sick?” Elodie asks.

“I’m not sick, and anyway I have you and your mother to help me out,” Marius says with an amiable smile before he sits up. He blinks at Musichetta and Bossuet. “Good news too?”

“Good news and dearly earned,” Musichetta says ruefully. “Did your exams go okay?”

Marius hangs his head. “I was lucky to even be allowed to take it at all. I could have done better.”

“He’s still a good brain doctor,” Elodie pronounces. “He always will be.”

“Yes, and now this ‘brain doctor’ will need help making the barbecue,” Marius answers as he scoops up Elodie such that he is carrying her piggyback style. “What sort of case did you get?” he asks Musichetta.

Musichetta rolls her eyes. “It had to be the lupus.”

Marius winces with sympathy as they all head out to the garden beyond the lanai. “Of all things it had to be that.”

“At least it really _was_ lupus and not one of its mimics,” Musichetta concurs. “What was yours?”

“Basilar artery occlusion. It was a miracle case,” Marius replies as he sets Elodie down on a bench.

“I don’t know what you guys are talking about but it all doesn’t sound good,” Bossuet remarks as he follows Marius to fetch some charcoal and help set up the grill. “What happens anyway if you guys fail the exams?”

“Depending on the specialty, we either get a retake in a year or a retake after remediation,” Marius explains. “In my case I would have had to do an extra six months in training before reapplying for the exam permit.”

The thought of an extra six months in residency is enough to make Musichetta shudder but she decides not to dwell on it, more so when Joly arrives a few minutes later. She meets him even before he can step out into the garden and gives him a tight hug. “You made it, Patrice. That’s what matters.”

Joly nods with relief as he hugs her back and then pulls Bossuet into their embrace. “I hope my patient also pulls through,” he mumbles.

“Ouch. Bad case?”Bossuet asks.

“Very cranky patient but I do not quite blame her. It was the virus talking, not her.”

‘ _The fact he knows that is what makes him a good doctor,’_ Musichetta realizes. She has seen pain and discomfort bring out everything cantankerous and uncooperative in otherwise affable patients, and more importantly she’s seen colleagues respond none too kindly to this change. ‘ _He can always see through that, and that’s why his patients get better.’_

In short order the rest of their friends begin to arrive, and by sundown everyone is out in the lanai or the garden, taking turns manning the grill, passing around drinks, or watching over Elodie, Darren, and Alexandra. Combeferre and Florence are among the last to arrive, looking less harried than Musichetta expects. “It took several miles to get him in this state,” Florence reports.

“A hard case I can stand, but _not_ a judgmental panel,” Combeferre says tersely as he sits on the stoop.

“Got grilled?” Gavroche quips. “Or fricasseed, minced, whatever you call it----“

Combeferre gives him a reproving look. “Let us just say I am happy to go through it just once.”

Marius looks to Eponine, who is filling up a glass while listening to one of Cosette’s stories. “Eponine, how did yours go?”

Eponine shakes her head. “I passed but I don’t really want to talk about it now.”

“Hey what’s in that pitcher---wait a minute, it’s _water?”_ Grantaire asks, seeing what Eponine has in hand. “Does that mean you’re---“

“Shut up, Capital R!” Eponine hisses.

Grantaire bursts out laughing. “It’s about time anyway Enjolras scored a home run.”

Enjolras shoots him a withering look. “Thank you for stating it so well.”

Azelma looks quizzically at her sister. “Ponine though, are you really.....”

Eponine sighs as she glances at Enjolras and then crosses her arms.  “To answer everyone’s questions, I got morning sickness during the exam, so I got a pregnancy test and it was positive. Is that enough?”  

“If you figured it out that way, you must be at least a month, maybe six weeks along....” Courfeyrac begins. “Shouldn’t you be worrying about some of the viruses that have been going about lately, like in the waiting rooms?”

“Not to mention that you used the x-ray machine in the OR three days ago,” Combeferre chimes in. “You had the lead apron, but still----“

Eponine slams down her glass.   “You think I haven’t thought about that since this morning? Yeah, it’s as simple as drinking water for you guys.”

“I’m just stating a fact,” Combeferre points out. “If I had known, I would have asked someone else to scrub in for you instead.”

“That wouldn’t have been your call to make, even if you are still the chief resident,” Eponine snaps.

Florence takes the opportunity to elbow Combeferre before he can say another word. “Daniel, can you not talk shop for a bit? You’ve been running on everything medical for ten hours and ten minutes now.”

Bahorel, Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet howl with laughter at this near-exact estimate. “And how many seconds and milliseconds?” Grantaire asks Florence gleefully.

“Give me a stopwatch and I’ll tell you,” Florence says.

“If there’s anyone who should be talking shop here, it’s Chetta,” Feuilly chimes in. “Free medical consult right here.”

“Actually it would be a courtesy,” Musichetta pipes up. “Eponine, we’ll talk about this in _my_ office tomorrow. Bring Enjolras with you.”

Eponine smiles with relief. “Seven am. I have a presentation to make.”

“Seriously that’s all you guys are going to say?” Azelma protests as she looks at Eponine and Enjolras. “I mean, it’s really cool that you guys are finally having a kid. I thought I was never going to be an aunt.”

“Wait a minute, what about Gavroche here?” Courfeyrac asks, gesturing to the youngest Thenardier.

“Face it guys, he’s just going to mitose,” Joly says. “Or maybe not---I think one of you is more than enough for this world.”

Gavroche sticks out his tongue at them. “I am not fixing your wi-fi again.”

Thankfully the discussion shifts just like that to all the things that the boys can do, or have done by way of retaliation. It’s enough to chase away the worry in Eponine’s look and the mere mention of work from Combeferre’s speech. In fact even Enjolras throws in an anecdote or two about his brother-in-law’s mischief. ‘ _If only things could always be so simple,’_ Musichetta catches herself thinking, but she shakes her head before draining her own glass of juice. Life always has a way of taking a strange turn outside the relative safety of these walls.


	4. Chapter 4

****

**_4: A Flash in the Morning_ **

It would be just another deceptively normal morning for Enjolras, except that this time instead of simply dropping Eponine off at the lobby of Saint-Michel Hospital, he accompanies her to the obstetrics wing on the ground floor. ‘ _We’d better get used to this place,’_ he tells himself as they walk through the brightly painted corridor decorated with posters of fetal development and pictures of chubby cheeked infants in their mothers’ arms. Most of the women here are already very big with child; in fact some of them appear twice as heavy as Eponine is today. “That can’t be good for anyone’s back,” he remarks as he and Eponine find seats near the reception desk.  

“You think? Some women actually have to undergo some therapy for back problems after their kids are born.” Eponine says flatly over the music coming from an early morning TV show. She bites her lip as she sees yet another patient queue up. “I might even have to reduce my OR time or scrub in only to assist when this kid starts getting really huge. It’s not just my back that’s going to be an issue by then, but even my _legs_. They’re going to get so swollen---well maybe not _too_ swollen since that’s a danger sign....”  

“Eponine, that is not going to happen,” Enjolras says firmly. The fact that she does have some background with regard to the basics of obstetrics is more unsettling than reassuring; Enjolras is almost sure that with each patient Eponine sees, a new complication passes through her mind. He squeezes her shoulder both to catch her attention as well as to reassure her. “It’s going to be okay. This is why we’re seeking care this early, aren’t we?”

She manages a brief smile. “I wish I could be as certain as you are.”

“It’s not being certain; I prefer banking on the better side of the odds this time,” he informs her.  The truth is that he’s also worried, but he is not about to let on especially when Eponine is clearly wound up about this situation. So he settles for stroking her palm and to his relief her fingers curl around his. It’s not holding on for dear life, but preferring to keep faith in hand.

By this time the receptionist has sauntered in, chewing on some gum while keeping one arm around a whole bundle of files. She starts when she sees Eponine. “Hello Doc, what are you doing here? And with your husband too?” she croons. “Who are you referring today?”

“It’s just me, Maz. I have an appointment to see Dr. Laurain,” Eponine says.

Maz’s eyes widen with understanding. “Congratulations! So are you guys hoping for a boy or a girl?”

 “At this point, having a healthy baby would be more than enough,” Eponine replies.

“Oh of course,” Maz replies as she glances at her watch. “You should use the toilet first, and then I’ll take your vital signs before Dr. Laurain gets here.”

“What for?” Enjolras asks in an undertone.

“Let’s just say that it’s not easy to do _any_ examination on a full bladder,” Eponine explains before getting up to go to the small washroom near the reception desk.

While Eponine is away, Enjolras busies himself with checking his email and getting a look at the morning news. He frowns at an article detailing searches in the ports and some bus terminals for smuggled goods and wildlife; this sort of thing is becoming more and more rampant lately, or the police are getting better at discovering these shenanigans. ‘ _Those aren’t the only things coming across though,’_ he notes, recalling now the sweatshop workers that Eponine had helped rescue just days ago, and the resulting entanglements with the immigration bureau. It’s a thorny matter, but one he is determined to fight out just like all his other cases.

Eponine returns after a few minutes, just as Musichetta is also entering the office. “Perfect timing,” Musichetta says by way of greeting. “I’ll take it from here, Maz,” she tells the receptionist.

‘ _Don’t most doctors get nurses or other staff to do this?’_ Enjolras can’t help wondering, but then again, Musichetta is not like other physicians. He watches Eponine sit down calmly for Musichetta to take her blood pressure and pulse rate; this routine is almost a ritual for them by now, a throwback to medical school days. “Aren’t there digital blood pressure cuffs by now?” he asks, noticing the rather old fashioned sphygmomanometer Musichetta is using.

“I prefer the calibration on these,” Musichetta says before quickly jotting down her readings and ushering them both into a small side room. This space, as tiny as it is, seems bright and airy thanks to a large window that takes full advantage of the morning light. The cubicle seems even livelier thanks to a colourfully painted wire sculpture that sits on Musichetta’s desk, a keepsake that hails from elective art class that Joly had once in college. “Now I know you guys well enough, but I still have to ask these questions for history-taking’s sake,” she explains as she pulls her chair out from behind her desk so that she is sitting closer to her friends.

“Alright, shoot,” Eponine says. She answers each question readily, even volunteering more information than Musichetta asks in her interview. “So how far am I along?”  

“Judging from the date of your last period, six to seven weeks,” Musichetta says as she gets up to begin preparing the examining table. “That means you’ll probably be giving birth in the second week of January next year.”

Enjolras breathes a sigh of relief; they still have some time to prepare. “That is just an estimate though. Alex was born nearly three weeks ahead of schedule.”

Musichetta nods. “It’s also likely that the baby can overstay a bit. Not too long though.”  She pats the examining table. “Okay you know the drill.”

Eponine shrugs as she grabs a hospital gown and a blanket. “Auguste, you really might want to step out before we do this.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Enjolras says, but all the same he pales when he sees Musichetta pick up a steel instrument that appears to be two rounded blunt blades joined by a single handle. “Wait, what is that?”

“That is called a speculum,” Eponine explains as she climbs up onto the examining table and takes off her pants.

The name is enough to cue Enjolras in as to the purpose of this tool. “You’re going to use that to take a look there....doesn’t that hurt?” he asks both women.

“It can pinch a bit,” Musichetta says. “Sorry, Ponine,” she mutters before beginning her examination.

It is all that Enjolras can do not to blanch, so he looks at Eponine instead, wondering how she’s going to take that. She is gripping the sides of the examination table so hard that her knuckles grow white and she squeezes her eyes shut until Musichetta is done with her work. “Everything good?” she asks as she finally sits up.

‘Yep, as good as expected,” Musichetta replies as she puts the speculum in a dish of detergent and then discards her gloves. “I’ll order a few routine tests---just for the sake of taking baselines---“

“Chetta, I know it’s not routine at this point, but can we add an ultrasound to that?” Eponine asks. “I just really want to be _sure_ of things.”

Musichetta sighs. “You know what’s going to be the most harmful thing for your baby? Your worrying. All those things you were fretting about last night might not even do anything at all since they are not really a habit for you.”

“Chetta....”

“Please, just do it,” Enjolras cuts in. “I mean, you can see something, right?”

“A little. It looks mostly like a blob though, at least to most people. I won’t even be able to tell yet if there are things wrong anatomically but we’ll see that he or she is just there,” Musichetta replies as she finishes writing in Eponine’s chart. She gestures to another room with a bed next to an ultrasound machine. “Wait here, I’ll have to get some gel,” she says before quitting the room.

Eponine sighs as she takes a seat on the bed. “I know it’s being pushy, but I can’t let it slide,” she admits.

“For all we know, nothing might be wrong,” Enjolras reasons. Yet all the same he’s excited that they’ll finally be getting their first look at their child, even at this early stage. “We won’t be able to see the gender just yet?” he clarifies.

“Not till I’m about four or five months along.” Eponine looks at him keenly for a moment. “So do you want a boy or a girl?”

Enjolras is quiet for a moment; this is not really a question he’s considered yet given that he’s only found out less than 24 hours ago that he is now a parent. “Either way I’ll be happy.”

“You’re shitting me. Everyone has their preferences,” Eponine points out.

“I’m not! It’s exactly what you were telling Maz earlier; what matters now is that the baby _and_ you will be healthy,” Enjolras replies as he strokes her hair. “Though having a son would be rather crazy, given that we’re still somewhat parenting our friends?”

“That's so mean!”

“I’ll only stop believing it once we stop having to drive them home drunk.”

“That’s going to change. Darren will do that for Jehan and Grantaire, and the rest will soon catch up,” Eponine declares firmly. She pats his hand and places it over her middle. “I don’t really have a preference either, well not yet. I don’t want to think about it till I’m sure this baby is here to stay.”

It’s just as well that Musichetta soon enters the room, holding a bottle of ultrasound gel. “You guys ready?” she asks as she motions for Eponine to lie down on the bed.

“We never are,” Eponine quips. This time she grips Enjolras’ hand as she waits for Musichetta to get the probe in the proper position. “See anything yet?”

“Give me a minute. Okay, there’s your cervix, there’s your uterus....ah there it is,” Musichetta says proudly. She taps on a keypad to freeze the image. “Okay everything checks out. Seven weeks and three days, actually. There’s your kid.”

The image on the screen is hardly more than a fuzzy gray blob surrounded by a dark sort of sac, but it’s _there_ , and if Enjolras squints he can just make out the barest flicker of movement. “Is that a heartbeat?” he asks.

“It probably is,” Eponine replies, now also staring at the screen. She squeezes Enjolras’ hand more excitedly. “Oh my.  It is. It’s kind of early...”

“But not unheard of,” Musichetta says. She smiles as she turns off the probe. “It’s going to be fine. Just follow up with the lab results, take care of yourself and _don’t stress yourself out.”_ She also gives Enjolras a pointed look. “That goes for you too.”

“Will do,” Enjolras concurs. It heartens him greatly to see that Eponine is smiling now, and looking far more relieved than he’s seen her in a few days. He drops a kiss on her forehead. “Better now?”

She nods before inching to kiss his lips. “Thank you.”

Suddenly voices and muttering come from the waiting room. A knock sounds on the cubicle door. “Doctor Laurain? There’s an emergency call,” Maz calls from outside. “It’s also for Doctor Enjolras.”

“Great. Some accident most likely,” Eponine sighs as she gets up from the table and starts putting her clothes back on.

Enjolras glances at his phone for any breaking news and sees a teaser reading: ‘ _Explosion in the Central District, Car Bombing Suspected.’_ He runs out to the waiting room and sees everyone gathered around the TV. The footage is all fire and smoke but he can clearly distinguish the smoldering remains of a shop in the vicinity of the courthouse he frequents. “What happened?”

“Can’t you guess? Someone’s stopping a hearing,” Maz says. “Any case you know, Attorney?”

Enjolras checks his phone for the schedules of the hearings in the venue that day, as well as meetings in the fiscal’s office. ‘ _Too many leads,’_ he realizes, seeing several controversial cases up for debate that day. At that moment he sees a lot of messages from Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Bahorel, and Bossuet, all asking where he is. He quickly sends a reply to all of them before calling up Courfeyrac. “What’s going on, Courf?” he asks in an undertone.

“Glad you’re asking; for a minute we all thought you were at the courthouse!” Courfeyrac says. “The witnesses that were at the sweatshop....the ones Eponine bailed out?”

“Yes, what about them?” Enjolras asks, already dreading the answer.

“They were supposed to meet the fiscal today, remember? Most of them are dead and there are more on their way to Saint-Michel. They were just about to enter the building when that car blew up.” Courfeyrac takes a deep breath. “You’re still at Saint-Michel?”

“Yes. Eponine is with me. We’re in Chetta’s office.”

“Okay, sit tight you two and don’t step out. I’ll be there right away.”


	5. Chapter 5

****

**_Chapter 5: What We Meet on the Road_ **

Bahorel is used to every kind of unpleasant scene, but he has never seen anything like the outright massacre in front of the courthouse. Everything here is blood and ash, with the dead and wounded sprawled amid the rubble from the courthouse’s facade as well as nearby shops and establishments. The air is still thick with smoke from the smouldering wreckage of the car bomb, and it makes Bahorel’s eyes sting as he jogs up the sidewalk. He shakes his head when he sees a team of paramedics cease doing CPR on a man caught within the blast zone. ‘ _If there is really a hell, then there is no circle deep enough for whoever did this,’_ he decides.

An officer steps forward to block Bahorel as he approaches the police line.  “This is a crime scene, sir. I advise you stay away,” he says gruffly.

Bahorel pulls his ID out of his pocket. “Special Investigator Remy Bahorel. Let me through.” 

The officer sneezes and wipes his nose with his sleeve. “What’s the human rights commission have got to do with this?”

“The victims are known to us,” Bahorel replies before bringing out a camera to begin taking pictures of the scene.

Suddenly he hears his phone ring, and he stops to take the call from Feuilly. “Hey dude, where are you?” he asks his friend concernedly. “Hope you’re not anywhere near where I’m standing.”

“I’m at the office, taking calls. Bossuet has gone to the Immigration Bureau to coordinate with them about contacting the victims’ families. Courf and Enjolras are meeting up at Saint-Michel,” Feuilly says in a harried tone. “Has the scene been cleared?”

“Not quite; there are still paramedics,” Bahorel replies. He nods to a blonde woman clad in the uniform of a crime scene investigator, signalling to him. “Gilles, I’ve got to speak with the SOCO team here, so I’ll get back to you and the Chief as soon as I can. In the meantime please call up de Chagny and ask if anyone’s been moving any high-grade explosive.”

Feuilly whistles. “You think he’d know?”

“He’d know someone who knows,” Bahorel replies. This is not the first time he’s thankful to have a good friend on the less shady side of the munitions industry. As soon as his friend ends the call, he pockets the phone, brushes some dust off his shirt and walks up to the woman now taking notes. “I’m Bahorel, from the human rights commission. Special Investigator. Anything I can help you with?” he greets, holding out his hand.

“I’m Karen Hooper,” the woman says, looking up quickly from her notepad. Her nose crinkles even as her hazel eyes survey him carefully. “You trained with a cousin of mine.”

It takes Bahorel a moment to recall the names and faces that these words bring to mind. “Molly. Is she still with---“

Karen makes a face. “I never know what’s with her and Holmes.” She chews on her lip as she looks around. “So these people were witnesses, victims, or what---?”

“Survivors,” Bahorel replies. It’s just as well that Karen is easy on the eyes, what with the way her regulation black jacket hangs so nicely on her, since he now can’t look around this scene without feeling his stomach twist with revulsion. “Have you found anything?”

Karen nods. “This fits the _modus operandi_ of a group for hire that’s been operating in this city. Big truck parked right in front of the place, only this time they blew it up instead of filling it with contraband and driving off.”

‘ _A last job before hitting the road, or a move on to higher power?’_ Bahorel wonders. Either way he and his friends now have their work cut out for them.  “What are they called?”

“The _Difunto_ gang,” Karen says with a shrug. Her smile would be coy if not for the seriousness of this scenario. “It doesn’t ring a bell? I think you’re less interested in pyrotechnics, and more about who’d hire these goons.”

Bahorel grins approvingly. “Ah, we’re on the same wavelength then.”  

“I know your type. Big picture people and high crimes.”

“I’m a weapons specialist. That’s a lot of getting up close.”

Karen laughs but her expression turns serious once more as she looks to where one of her teammates is about to board a car. “I have to go. We’ll forward a copy of the crime scene report to the commission’s office as soon as we can,” she tells him.

“We should talk more about this, Karen,” Bahorel says. “Compare notes, maybe over coffee....”

She crosses her arms. “Is your chief going to approve of that?”

 “We’re team players in the commission nowadays,” he replies. “Always could use some help, especially on the ground.”

She smiles again before she writes down a number on her notepad and tears the sheet out. “After office hours. I’m more into tea by the way,” she whispers as she presses the paper into his palm. “See you around, Bahorel”

Bahorel is nothing short of elated as he quickly saves Karen’s number into his phone’s directory and sends her a text message. “Like hell I’m going to wait for that report,” he mutters as he goes to talk to some of the other personnel on the scene. He doesn’t unearth much more than what he already has from his own photography; there are no eyewitnesses or video footage to give any clues as to who triggered the explosion. ‘ _Obviously by remote,’_ he decides as he heads now for Saint-Michel Hospital, where the few survivors have now been brought.

He arrives just in time to see Enjolras and Courfeyrac exiting the lobby. “Looks like I’m a little late,” Bahorel greets them loudly.

“On the contrary you’re right on time; there’s nothing more we can do here until the patients are out of danger,” Enjolras  says as he grips Bahorel’s shoulder. “We’ll touch base with the doctors later, after our meeting with the Immigration Bureau.”  

Bahorel nods as he follows his friends to Courfeyrac’s car. “Have you guys heard of the _Difunto_ gang?” he asks as he slides into the backseat.

Courfeyrac scoffs as he turns the key in the ignition. “Now and then they come up in the police blotters. Mostly runners and hustlers.”

“They operate downtown, near the halfway house,” Enjolras chimes in from the front passenger seat. “You’re better off asking Eponine about that _after_ she scrubs out later.”

“You let her do operations in her condition?” Bahorel sputters.

“She’s pregnant, not incapacitated. Musichetta checked her over this morning and everything is okay,” Enjolras points out. His eyes are harsh and yet pensive as he looks out the window for a few moments. “So the _Difunto_ group is now tagged in the bombing?”

“Hired for it,” Bahorel replies. “That’s the motive the local police are working with, according to the SOCO operative I met with.”

“It must have taken a heck of an incentive to get them to step up from the small time,” Courfeyrac says, shaking his head. He takes a deep breath as he stops the car at a red light. “Have you read the medico-legal reports of the rescue?”

“Later,” Bahorel says. He’s not sure he’s ready for that just yet, especially when he knows that today’s report will be even grimmer. “How many of our witnesses are still alive?” he asks at length.

“Eight. Three of them are touch and go.” Enjolras answers. He grabs his phone as it beeps with an incoming message. He takes one look at the screen and grits his teeth. “That was Combeferre. We’re down to seven.”

“Damn them all to hell,” Bahorel mutters as he clenches his fist, longing now for the satisfying smack of knuckles against flesh. Yet he hears something crinkle in his pocket and he reaches down to find the paper with Karen’s number. His fingers curl around the scrap like they would around a talisman, only that this one is something he is almost sure of.


	6. Chapter 6

****

**Chapter 6: Friendly Forces**

The evening is as perfect as any summer night ought to be, with the sky a tapestry of rose and gold and a slight breeze in the air. ‘ _It’s almost too lovely to be believed,’_ Eponine tells herself as she looks away from the window and returns to signing out the last of the day’s reports and operating room papers. The tranquillity of this hour is almost a mockery of the day’s brutality, for even now she is fearfully listening for any alarms from the ICU or a call about any of her patients going into distress. Yet as the hands on the clock fast approach six pm, the silence somehow still holds, prompting Eponine to sigh with relief as she finally signs out for the day and takes a bus to the center of the city.

She bites her lip when she alights outside the city hall and finds Enjolras’ car in a corner of the now otherwise empty parking lot. “Someone’s doing self-imposed overtime,” she mutters as she pockets her phone, deciding now to take a more direct approach by heading up to the third floor, where the human rights commission’s local office is located at the end of the hall. She frowns as she makes her way through this corridor; while she is not claustrophobic, she can certainly sense when too much has been going on in such a tiny space. ‘ _Not surprising, given how today has been like,’_ she thinks as she knocks thrice on the door and pushes it open.

This room is snug but well-lit, with five cubicles decked out according to the tastes of their respective users. Most of one wall is covered by a large corkboard with the right half filled up by various memos, photos, and a few notes. The left side has a large map of the city, with various points that Enjolras is marking out using pins and photos. His sleeves are rolled up to past his elbows and his hair is rather tousled, as if he’s run his fingers through it in a fit of frustration.

Eponine slips into the room, taking care not to scuff the floor or make any sound to alert him to her presence. Yet she is only an arm’s length away when he suddenly glances her way. His eyes widen with surprise for a moment. “Eponine, what are you doing here?”

“Dropping by. You normally are the one who swings by my office, so I thought I’d return the favor for a change,” she says lightly as she closes the distance between them and puts her hands on his shoulders. She winces on feeling the hard knots under her fingers. “Are you planning to tie them all together with yarn or something?”

“Not yet,” Enjolras admits in a matter-of-fact tone. “How did you do today?”

“Helped get seven people out of the OR and into recovery. Took us most of the day but they’re stable,” she replies as she begins to press on the tightest point she can find. She nods sympathetically when he groans with relief. “There, there. It was just one thing after another today, wasn’t it?”

“Meetings, desk work....only now I get to think,” he says. “How have you been holding up?”

“Our kid has been behaving. I guess he or she knows the situation is urgent,” she quips.

Enjolras cracks a smile. “So what’s the prognosis for your patients?”

She smiles more easily at this query. “It’s still up in the air for one of them, but nearly all the others stand a good chance.”

“That’s good,” Enjolras says. He grits his teeth as he looks at the corkboard again and points to a spot in the area of downtown. “Eponine, have you heard of the _Difunto_ gang?”

The strange word rings a bell, but it takes Eponine a moment to place it. “Only on graffiti near the halfway house. They have territory near there.”

“I see.” Enjolras’ eyes narrow as he surveys the map again. “They are definitely out of bounds. So would any other suspects that the immigration office has been tagging. There’s a missing link here, but _what_?” he mutters more to himself than to her.

She feels her gut twist, but thankfully more from apprehension than actual nausea. “Are you linking them to the bombing?”

“According to the field operatives, the scene had their MO” He grits his teeth and shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s obvious that the sweatshop is only one link in a chain. This gang possibly being involved is another link. Now I want to know who is at the end of it before someone else gets hurt.”

“You’ll find out,” she whispers as she squeezes his shoulders more tightly. “Wouldn’t it be better though to find the _weak_ link first?”

 “We already had it, until this morning at the courthouse,” he says, giving her a sidelong look. He takes a long ragged breath as he looks at the map again. “There has to be something more that can be done.”

“Not right now. The survivors aren’t ready yet to talk to the fiscal or anyone else.”

“Yet being the important word.”

Eponine nods even as she pulls him into her arms. “You’ve done all you could for today, Auguste,” she whispers before kissing his cheek. “Come on, it’s already after six. Let’s go.”

He buries his face briefly in her hair and kisses her left ear before stepping away from her. “I just have to take a look at something first,” he insists when she tugs on his hand.

“Right now?”

“Just a few minutes, I promise.”

“I’m counting,” she reminds him as she watches him go to his cubicle. She bites her lip as she imagines the corkboard covered with a web of yarn, and possibly even more pins. ‘ _It’s always a web beneath the surface,’_ she thinks just as she hears him quickly open and shut a drawer. “What is it?”

“The entry points,” Enjolras replies as he motions for her to join him in the cubicle. “To be more exact, the entry _ports_.”

She steps into the cubicle and roll s her eyes on seeing the piles of papers all over the desk, a form of chaos that only he can make sense of. Yet amid all this clutter is a collection of photos he’s taken over the past year, including one of her seated atop some rocks overlooking a view of a lake at sunset. She grins on seeing the latest addition there, which is none other than a copy of the sonogram picture from earlier today. “To be honest, he or she still looks a bit like a blob. A _cute_ blob though.”

He chuckles as he glances at the picture, then back at her. “So when will the baby start looking more or less recognizable?”

“About the third or fourth month,” she says. She happens to glance at the calendar on his desk and she smiles on realizing that it will only be a matter of weeks till she can count on this change. She rubs Enjolras’ shoulders when she sees that he’s studying a list of seaports. “So our witnesses were being smuggled in aboard cargo ships?”

“That would be the cliché way to go about it, and the easiest, but it’s not the usual practice,” Enjolras replies. “Usually people get in using their legal names on a proper ship or an airplane, and using visas they’ve paid dearly for. Then from there they become impossible to track.”

“So what are you angling at?”

“I was thinking of other forms of ticketed travel _within_ the country.”

Eponine peers more closely at the list her partner is surveying. There are several large harbours listed there, such as the famous one in Port Town, but there are also smaller ports and piers that cater to the ferry services. ‘ _Such as those that form a part of bus routes,’_ she notes as she goes back to the map on the wall and traces with her finger the long highway leading down to the capital’s riverside port, where passenger buses and vehicles can drive onto barges for short crossings to the other bank or to nearby towns. “They get past here, they disappear. No one really checks,” she says as he joins her.

“Then what are inspectors for?”

“To make sure no one is taking a free ride---it doesn’t matter to them who or what pays for it. The port personnel presume that once someone has a boat ticket, they’ve paid for the entire route.”

“I was thinking more of the ports as being jump-off points for anyone who came up through small river craft. Either way if we can find someone who can attest to how the witnesses were brought in, then this will help build the prosecution’s case,” Enjolras concurs as he gestures to the course of the river snaking down from the lake, through the city, and out to the sea.  He smiles more confidently as he considers the map again. “This is just one possibility.”

“It’s one more than you had when I first got here,” she points out. “Now can we go?”

“Very well then.” He pulls a stray strand of hair away from her face before kissing her soundly. “Thank you, Eponine.”

She smiles against his lips, more so when she sees that intense fire in his eyes again. “Why don’t we go out for dinner now? To be honest, I’m not up to cooking.”

“Ah. I thought it was someone giving you cravings,” he says as he pats her midsection.

“Auguste, don’t give our kid any ideas,” she warns as they head to his car. Although part of her still fears that they are tempting fate by speaking of her pregnancy with such a firm sense of actuality, the mere recollection of their child’s heartbeat on the sonogram does a great deal now to dispel her fears. “So when are you going to tell your mom about the baby?” she asks when they get to a red light.

“Next month. She’s only stopped gushing about our wedding,” Enjolras deadpans. “I take that you aren’t going to tell your parents?”

Eponine shakes her head. “You’ve met my dad. Imagine what he would try to do just to see his grandchild. My mom would do the same.” The idea of her parents demanding clemency or parole on these grounds is unnerving, at least till she remembers that there is no way that this can become probable especially after her father’s recent antics in and out of prison. “What about your dad?”

“I’ll let my mother tell him. He can decide from there.”

“Is it fine with _you_ though?”

 Enjolras sighs deeply before looking right at her. “Just for our child’s sake. I can manage to be civil.”  

She squeezes his knee as the light turns green. “Now where do you want to go?”

“There’s an arts fair at the square tonight, and the food stalls offer a lot of choices. We can start there,” he replies after a few moments. “Unless you’d prefer someplace quieter?”

 “Hmm....outdoors at a fair, on a moonlit summer evening? It almost sounds romantic,” Eponine teases. She laughs when Enjolras turns red up to his ears. “I want a dinner that I don’t have to cook, and you need something more than a quiet night at home.”

“That works,” Enjolras says, still slightly flustered as they take the exit leading to their neighbourhood.

In a quarter of an hour they arrive at a bustling park just five blocks away from their apartment building. The usually serene paths winding through the green are now lined with small tents and kiosks showcasing a variety of foods, handcrafted curiosities, gallery pieces, and even fairground games. Enjolras loses no time in lining up at a kiosk selling ratatouille, while Eponine decides to wander and peruse some of the food selections. At length she comes across a stall selling dumplings, noodles, and hard boiled eggs of varied colors. “Now what is in _that_ brew?” she wonders aloud as she watches a cook fish some deep brown eggs out of a simmering pot.

“Those are tea eggs,” a woman chimes in from where she is filling a basket up with yellow eggs. She is tall, with rich chestnut hair and a rosy complexion. Although she is clad in a simple violet wrap dress, her delicately polished nails and light makeup give her an air of elegance that makes her seem regal in this bucolic bazaar.

“Tea eggs as in cooked in tea?” Eponine asks. There is something mildly familiar about this stranger’s face, almost as if she’s seen her expressions before. ‘ _But where?’_

“Steeped in it,” the woman says. “They’re rather mild for my taste though.”

Eponine nods slowly. “And you have what...saffron eggs?”

“Turmeric. That’s an acquired taste, I’m afraid,” the woman says with a shrug as she puts the basket on a tabletop. “If you want to try the tea eggs or any of the others, go on ahead and pay up later. I’m just watching this stall for a friend but she’ll be back shortly.   

“What’s in the tea eggs?” Eponine asks cautiously.

“Black tea, some citrus extract and a touch of soy sauce. It’s an old Chinese recipe. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

The woman arches an eyebrow before picking an egg out of several standing to dry on a rack. “Here you go. You eat it like a normal hard boiled egg,” she says as she drops the egg into a small paper dish.

Eponine peels the end of egg and takes a few nibbles. The flavour is sweet and tangy, with just a hint of the smokiness of black tea. “It’s delicious.”

“That’s why it’s a best seller,” the lady says proudly. “I’ll tell my friend that.”

“Marguerite!” a younger woman calls from a nearby stall. “Andrew just called. He and Percy are still stuck in traffic near the park, so it might be a while till they get here.”

“Suzanne, I’m still watching the shop for Mrs. Li. So just tell the boys that it’s fine, take their time,” the woman named Marguerite shouts. She shrugs resignedly as she starts filling another basket. “Boys will be boys. I see you know what I mean,” she quips, gesturing to Eponine’s wedding ring.

Eponine laughs. “Not just that. I practically raised my younger brother.” 

“I have an older brother, but sometimes our roles seemed to switch,” Marguerite confides.  “He’s a journalist nowadays for the _Beacon_ , so I don’t see much of him.”

Suddenly it becomes clear to Eponine who she’s speaking to. “You’re Armand St-Just’s sister, Marguerite,” she says. “I met your brother while he was doing a story last year.”

Marguerite’s brow furrows. “What story?”

“The one about the weaving room.”

Marguerite’s eyes widen. “You’re Doctor Eponine Thenardier---or should I say Doctor Thenardier-Enjolras,” she says, shaking Eponine’s hand firmly. “I go by the name Marguerite Blakeney, but I think your husband and some of your colleagues would still remember me as Marguerite St-Just.”

 ‘ _Bahorel certainly would,’_ Eponine thinks even as she manages to keep a straight face. “You could just call me ‘Eponine’. We’re not in a clinic.”

Marguerite nods approvingly.  “By the way, thank you for saving my brother’s life. If you and Enjolras hadn’t been there at the weaving room with him, he would have been shot.”

“He gave us a lead in that helped my husband wrap up the case he was handling. The thanks goes both ways,” Eponine points out candidly.

“That’s my brother---always getting into a fix,” Marguerite laughs. She scowls as she hears her phone begin to ring. “I have to go. Just leave your money on the counter---and feel free to take any cards too,” she says furtively.

“Marguerite, wait---“ Eponine calls but by now Marguerite has already ducked behind the stall to answer the call. The surgeon sighs as she digs in her pocket for a few coins and leaves them on the table. She quickly espies two stacks of cards in a corner of the table. One stack is more flamboyantly decorated, showcasing different kinds of delicacies and even a map of this little store’s outlet. The second is far more straightforward, with two lines: ‘ _Marguerite S. Blakeney, Migrants Aid League_ followed by a cellphone number and an email address. The only concession to aesthetics is a single red flower in the lower right hand corner.

Eponine leaves the first set of cards alone, but takes two from the second. ‘ _One for Saint-Michel, the other for the law office,’_ she figures. It never hurt after all to add to one’s little black book.


	7. Chapter 7

****

**Chapter 7: Watery Tales**

It does not take Jehan and Grantaire long to realize that pretty much nothing escapes Darren’s notice or his attempts at investigation. “We might make a Whitman out of you just yet. Old Uncle Walt was also fond of writing about water,” Jehan tells Darren as they are walking by the pier that is just a block away from their home. Contrary to what everyone thinks, the river does not always figure as one of Jehan’s main inspirations. The opposite is true for Grantaire though; the riverside is a favourite subject of his, second only to their circle of friends. ‘ _He’d render it on canvas...and maybe reverse the colors,’_   Jehan muses silently, remembering now what colors he saw Grantaire mixing up earlier in the day for a picture he has to finish by the end of the week.

Darren stares quizzically at Jehan’s hands for a moment before suddenly jumping up and tugging on Jehan’s sleeve. “T-there!” he shouts, pointing to the riverbank.

Jehan turns and grins at the sight of a ferry drawing up to the dock. “Ah, that is a boat headed south to the beach,” he explains. He hoists Darren onto his shoulders so he can get a better look at the double-decker boat running out a plank for passengers to disembark onto the pier.  “Like it?” he asks, looking up so the boy can read his lips.

Darren nods and tugs on Jehan’s collar. “Ride?”

Jehan pauses to consider the vessel; the boat is rather full especially for a weekday morning, but he figures he can get them seats on the roof deck. He lowers Darren to the ground so the boy can see him clearly. “Okay then. We’ll go for a short ride and then take the bus back home,” he signs. Of course Darren claps with glee and grabs Jehan’s sleeve to tug him along to the dock house. It’s an awkward sight, but Jehan doesn’t mind it at all if only for the sound of little Darren’s slightly shrill laughter.

The lady at the ticket booth smiles as Jehan and Darren approach the window. “The boy gets in for free; he’s still small enough,” she explains, holding out her palm to indicate the height limit. “Father-son bonding?” she asks as Jehan digs for change.

Jehan nods as he puts the money on the counter. “Yes. It’s his first time.”

The woman hums approvingly as she punches in Jehan’s ticket. “I’m sure his mother must be happy you’re taking time to be with him. Not enough dads do that nowadays.”

“Maybe,” Jehan says with a shrug as he gets the small plastic ticket. ‘ _She has her reasons after all,’_ he reminds himself. He and Grantaire know next to nothing about Darren’s biological mother, other than that she is young, almost a child herself. There are many tragic and melodramatic speculations that come to mind but he actively wills these thoughts away; her story surely deserves more than mere mawkish sentiment.

Darren is nearly beside himself with excitement, but he grabs Jehan’s hand anxiously as they board the ferry and find seats near the bow, away from the noisy engine and the stench of exhaust. “Many people,” he signs as he climbs into Jehan’s lap.

“Yeah, it’s crowded, so you have to stay with me,” Jehan signs back. It’s nearly lunchtime, hardly an hour most people would choose for a cruise. Yet perhaps this isn’t cruising, at least not for the passengers who come aboard with huge baskets of fruit, large crates, or even chicken coops.  A few curses and complaints cut through the din as people try to keep their baggage out of the paths of vendors hawking boiled corn on the cob, various grilled meats, and chilled bottles of juice and water. Yet despite the confusion it is only a matter of minutes till everyone finds seats and the bosun blows a whistle as the ferry casts off from the pier.

The air is crisp and clean, and Jehan is so tempted to close his eyes to better enjoy the breeze but he has to keep Darren from running about on deck. Besides there is no end to Darren’s questioning and pointing to just about anything and everything in sight. “That basket is full of mangoes----no, that is not chocolate, that’s rice cake---and no this boat has an engine, there aren’t any sails like in Papa Grantaire’s paintings,” Jehan explains, trying his best to keep up with Darren’s rapid fire questioning that alternates between half-garbled phrases and frantic signing. He can feel a cramp growing in his fingers but he has to ignore it, if only to sustain this conversation. ‘ _Who knows when we’ll get a chance like this again?’_  he muses. All the confusion aside, the view from the deck is beautiful. The river runs through the oldest parts of this city, past a hodgepodge of buildings still bearing remnants of Art Deco days, and churches of mossy stone and coral bricks. It is a strange contrast to the glass spires that loom further away in the commercial districts and downtown, but one that Jehan cannot spurn if only for the inspiration it always brings to his verses.

Before long the boat slows down as it approaches the pier fronting the _Flying Saucer Gastropub_. In short order a dozen more passengers hustle onto the roof deck, treading on toes and elbowing for seats. In the middle of this crush Jehan espies a young man with an amiable face and brown hair that flops in his eyes. He would be non-descript in his white t-shirt and black jeans, but Jehan remembers his face all too well from days gone by. “Hello Ffoulkes.”

This newcomer is caught up short only for a moment before a smile of recognition spreads over his face. “Prouvaire! Finally I get to actually see you instead of just online,” Andrew Ffoulkes greets. He smiles when he sees the child on Jehan’s lap. “You must be little Darren. Your dads and their friends keep posting about you.”

Jehan quickly translates this for Darren, who nods trustingly. “How are Suzanne and the kids doing?” Jehan asks as he makes room on the seat for Andrew to join them.

“Fantastic. Our eldest is entering the first grade, and at the top of his kindergarten class,” Andrew replies proudly. He looks around and his brow furrows. “Can you help me out, Prouvaire?”

“I will,” Jehan replies.

Andrew nods. “Have you seen a Chinese girl, about eighteen years old, with black hair in a bob-cut, and slightly protruding teeth?” he asks in an undertone.

The poet looks around and shakes his head; there is no one on deck who matches this description. “Try the lower deck?”

Andrew shakes his head. “She’s the niece of a friend.”

Jehan nods, not sure what to make of this information. Normally he would just let it slide, but not if it’s coming from Andrew Ffoulkes, one of the people he knows to be committed to the causes of the least and the lost. “She’s missing, isn’t she?”

Andrew nods almost imperceptibly. “Last seen with a ticket for this ferry line.” He brings out his phone to show a picture of a missing persons notice.  “That was two days ago. You know what they say about the golden period for these situations.”

These words are enough to make Jehan feel sick, most especially when he has to keep a grip on Darren’s arm to keep him from wandering around the deck. He tries not to imagine the vivacious young girl in this picture, lost at a dockside, standing forlorn by a road or worse. ‘ _She’d just be one of hundreds though,’_ he realizes, and it’s a thought that pinches at something in his chest. “Who’s helping you look?”

“Some of the guys,” Andrew says. He puts a hand on the armrest and gets to his feet as the boat draws up to another pier. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Jehan has to keep a hand on Darren’s shoulder to keep the boy from running off after Andrew, but all the same he stands up to get a better look at what has caught his friend’s attention. He sees Andrew disembark and quickly weave through the crowd, apparently on the trail of a group of old women whose faces are muffled by scarves. However he is forced to give up the chase once the women disappear into a restroom, and so he is left standing outside while making a phone call.

Suddenly Jehan feels Darren tugging on his sleeve. “Why, what do you see?” Jehan asks. His jaw drops when he catches sight of Enjolras entering the dockhouse to speak with Andrew. ‘ _Will wonders ever cease?’_ he muses as he sends a text message to Enjolras.

Just as he expects, his cellphone rings after a minute. “Jehan? At what station are you and Darren stopping at?” Enjolras asks.

“The one after this, at the center of town,” Jehan replies as he checks his ticket.

“That’s good. Could you please do me a favor and get a picture of the ticket booth there?” Enjolras asks.

“What for?”

“There’s a theory that Ffoulkes and I need to test,” Enjolras replies. “I hope this time, we’re wrong.”


	8. Chapter 8

****

**Chapter 8: Truth by the Water**

After all this time working with his friends in the law office, Enjolras is fairly certain that eagerness is the one thing they do not have a scarcity of. “Today is our opportunity to resolve many questions, but we must not overstep our boundaries or tempt unnecessary dangers. Therefore we will not be venturing anywhere without any legal backup, warrants, or at the very least hard evidence. Our options are limited until Combeferre can secure additional statements from his patients,” he tells Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Feuilly, and Bossuet as they are getting coffee at their office. “We still have hearings scheduled tomorrow for some of our other longstanding cases; Courfeyrac and Bossuet will see to those.” He looks to Bahorel, who is busy straightening out his cuffs. “You said you were meeting with an operative from the SOCO?”

Courfeyrac snorts. “You mean Officer Hooper? _She_ is quite the interesting character.”

“Very useful and forthcoming,” Bahorel says nonchalantly. “She promised to share their team’s report.”

“Make it quick. I doubt her office will approve an overly extended lunch break,” Enjolras remarks. “Feuilly, I understand that you will be talking to the police at the downtown precinct?”

Feuilly nods. “If there’s anyone who will have a blotter on the _Difunto_ gang, it’s them.”

“Point taken.” Enjolras concurs. “We all have to be on the watch for suspicious activity. No letting on to strangers or even other operatives and attorneys. In case of any injuries, please bring yourselves or whoever is involved to the nearest medical facility, but log it in with Eponine since she’s the consultant who is, as they say, ‘decked’ to this case.”  

“Speaking of decks, you’ll be headed to the river ferry?” Courfeyrac clarifies. “I mean you ran this theory with me earlier and it checks out but you’ll have to be pretty lucky to catch anyone _in flagrante delicto_.”

“The best chances of that will be where everyone passes through, up and downriver,” Enjolras explains as he goes to the map and gestures to Pier 1, the dock in the middle of the metropolis. “Some of the statements taken just after the rescue mentioned this transit point. There will be officers who would have kept records, most likely even CCTV footage.”

“Sounds like it’s time to borrow Mr. Fauchelevent’s software again,” Bossuet says. “Hopefully it’s compatible with whatever you’ll get.”

“We’ll work something out,” Enjolras replies. ‘ _This will have to be the only extent of the Fauchelevents’ involvement in this case; this is getting too dangerous,’_ he reminds himself. The fact that so many of his friends and acquaintances are more than willing to help out is both reassuring and disquieting, especially in the face of a mysterious and bloodthirsty foe. He checks his watch, which now reads ten in the morning. “I’ll be expecting some updates or at least a check-in by five.”

“Got it Chief. You’d better check in too,” Feuilly says as he shoulders his backpack.

“Of course.” Enjolras waits for the rest of his team to leave before he checks some photos he has downloaded to his phone. What would be otherwise unremarkable screen captures from a CCTV camera at a ferry’s ticket booth are unsettling when subjected to closer scrutiny. ‘ _The fact that it’s always the second window closed before noon and always the same persons waiting nearby can be taken as a sort of signal,’_ he decides as he drives out to the riverside road and to the largest port within the city limits. He parks his car a block away from the dock house and takes a look at the calling card that Eponine had acquired in the park a few nights ago. ‘ _Well played, Blakeney,’_ he thinks as he takes in the familiar design of a red blossom in the lower right corner. It is an insignia he knows all too well, both from official records and from more youthful days.

It has been some time since he’s had to work with Percy Blakeney, Marguerite St. Just-Blakeney, and their organization in any capacity; for one thing it has only been a year since he’s left the legislature and returned to the fieldwork aspect of human rights law. ‘ _At least I don’t have to meet Percy Blakeney right away’_ Enjolras reminds himself, even as he recalls his acquaintance’s particularly flamboyant, even foppish manners from university days. This is almost certainly the reason for Marguerite’s being the one to initiate contact on her group’s behalf, and coursing this through Eponine, who is the relative newcomer to Enjolras’ own team. 

The parking lot of the dock house is crowded with huge trucks offloading whole shipments of fruit or accepting shipments of fish. Further on are dozens of people practically mobbing the passenger entrance, scrabbling for overpriced tickets or simply trying to elbow their way into the terminal. Enjolras discreetly walks to the visitors’ area, in time to see Andrew Ffoulkes alighting from a ferry. He allows himself a slight nod to this friend by way of acknowledgment. “Right on time,” he greets.

“Wouldn’t miss this; we really need the legal help,” Andrew says amiably. “By the way I just ran into Prouvaire and his son back on the ferry.”

“Did you now?” Enjolras asks curiously even as he hears his phone beep. He takes a moment to read Jehan’s message to confirm this fact and then calls his friend up. “Jehan? At what station are you and Darren stopping at?”

Jehan’s voice is loud even over the din of the ferry. “The one after this, at the center of town.”

‘ _Right where I need him,’_ Enjolras thinks, recalling the map in his office. “That’s good. Could you please do me a favor and get a picture of the ticket booth there?” 

“What for?”

“There’s a theory that Ffoulkes and I need to test,” Enjolras replies, glancing at the pier’s ticket booth, which is now crowded by a group of elderly women in shawls. “I hope this time, we’re wrong.”

Andrew whistles as Enjolras ends the call. “So you’ve also heard of the signal?”

“Marguerite mentioned it, and I’ve had a chance to request some pictures,” Enjolras explains. “I take that you are looking for someone?”

“The niece of one of the immigrants who Marguerite knows,” Andrew says. “Her name is Charlotte Lee, or at least that’s the name on her legal papers; she is probably travelling under another name by now.”

“Last seen here?”

“Yes, and I have reason to believe that she was lured into this country on false pretences---like some of the people your commission has been assisting.”

Enjolras nods, knowing it only stands to reason that Ffoulkes and his team have also been monitoring the case of the sweatshop workers. “Have you at least been able to pinpoint the ports and routes of illegal entry and identity switching?”

“Yes, but there is little a non-government organization can do about it,” Andrew points out. “Much of our work is to educate migrants and help find placements and assistance for those who come in conflict with the law.”   

“Admirable.” Enjolras looks about and sees that the crowd at the ticket booth has only thickened. It is at that moment that he sees a young girl flee the women’s restroom, shouting and cursing at the top of her lungs. A crone soon emerges, holding out her hands and trying to soothe this troubled youngster but to no avail. Enjolras takes a step towards this scene even as more old women close in around the girl, apparently intent on shielding her from the crowd. By now Andrew is sprinting towards this scene, all the while frantically signalling to the guards for help. ‘ _They are in on it,’_ Enjolras realizes even as he runs to pull this embattled youngster to safety. It’s enough to give her an opening in the crowd, but not enough to prevent one of the crones from dealing a blow to the back of Andrew’s head, hard enough to send him to the floor. The girl screams at this sight and flees the terminal entirely, dodging the one security guard who moves to stop her.

Andrew groans as he tries to sit up but only ends up curling up and holding a hand to his head. “Ffoulkes, don’t move. We need to get you some help,” Enjolras warns as he goes to steady his friend. He winces when Andrew nearly falls back. “Don’t fall asleep. Talk to me. Who should I call?” he asks.

“Don’t call Suzanne,” Andrew manages to say. “Get Percy or Marguerite.”

Enjolras nods even as he gets out his phone to dial the number on the calling card. He takes a deep breath as he hears someone picking up the phone. “Hello. May I please speak to Marguerite Blakeney?”

“Mrs. Blakeney speaking,” a lilting voice replies. “Who is this?”

“Attorney Enjolras. Andrew Ffoulkes told me to contact you,” Enjolras says. He sighs when he hears Marguerite gasp with shock. “You can use the GPS to check. We’re at Pier 1. We’ll have to be at the infirmary for medical attention----“

“No, I’ll tell Percy to come for you guys,” Marguerite cuts in. “Is it bad?”

“He’s conscious,” Enjolras replies, now walking alongside some of the guards helping carry Andrew to the pier’s small clinic. He can see blood on his friend’s head and he knows it doesn’t bode well. “I’ll transfer him to Saint Michel myself.”

“Please do. Percy and I will meet you there,” Marguerite says before quickly ending the call.

By this time Andrew is holding a hand to his head and nearly fainting at the sight of blood. “What was in that bag she hit me with? Weights?”

“Anything can be counted as a weight,” Enjolras points out as he motions for their companions to carry him out instead to the parking lot.

Andrew chuckles weakly at this bad joke. “Are you getting my skull checked out?”

“May as well,” Enjolras says. ‘ _It won’t just be the Blakeneys angry with me for this,’_ he realizes even as he starts the engine. He takes a deep breath before dialling up Eponine’s number. “Hello Eponine. Who’s your ER resident on duty?” he asks when she picks up after three rings. 

“Hey Auguste. I have Reynault working there today----wait, why are you going there?” Eponine asks. “I _told_ you to be careful!”

 “It’s not me, it’s one of the Blakeneys’ friends, Andrew Ffoulkes,” Enjolras explains quickly. He grits his teeth when he hears Eponine sit down. “It’s rather nasty, and I’m sorry....”

“Just explain later and just focus on getting your patient over here. I’ll meet you,” Eponine says after a few moments. “Don’t call me while driving, okay?”

“Got it. I’ll see you,” Enjolras replies. He sighs when he hears her end the call. “How are you holding up there?” he asks when he sees Andrew looking through his own phone.

Andrew makes a thumbs up sign. “I think the signal theory was right. I had the phone on video the entire time and I caught a thing or two.”

“I was hoping to be proven wrong,” Enjolras points out, but it is at that moment that he gets a text message from Prouvaire, with a photo of a similarly crowded ticket booth downriver. “This is no coincidence,” he mutters as he floors the gas pedal.

It isn’t far to Saint Michel, but it still seems like an eternity has passed by the time Enjolras catches sight of the familiar hospital building. He practically brings the car to a screeching stop outside the emergency room, and then steps aside to let the orderlies and interns help bring Andrew into the trauma room. He catches sight of Reynault, the resident on duty, but before he can greet this doctor he also sees Eponine walk up hurriedly, looking both frantic and absolutely furious. “Eponine, I can explain---“he begins.

“There isn’t an explanation for this, Auguste! You said you were just going to get into an inquiry, not like...like this!” Eponine blurts out as she grabs his arms, nearly digging in her nails through his shirt. “What if you also got hurt? What do you think was I supposed to do?”

“Things got out of hand,” Enjolras insists as he moves to take both of her hands. “I’ll tell you about it, but not here----“

“You owe me a decent medico legal report on this, you know?” she snaps. “I’m going to have to explain why you brought in someone with head trauma, coming from heaven knows what incident---

“We were trying to stop a kidnapping” he retorts. “A girl almost got snatched.”

Her eyes widen at this revelation. “Well where is she?”

“She ran while I was trying to help Ffoulkes there.”

Eponine stares at him for a moment, clearly trying to take in his story. “You explain this to Marguerite then. She just called my phone too.” She takes a deep breath. “And don’t you ever do that to me again.”

Before Enjolras can reach for her or even say anything to reassure her, he hears another car screeching into the parking lot. He nods somberly as the driver’s side door opens, and a tall, burly man emerges. His clothes are flashy and his gait would almost be gamesome if not for the worried expression on his face. “Good afternoon, Blakeney,” Enjolras greets this newcomer.

“A fine way of putting it, Enjolras,” Percy Blakeney replies in a booming voice. He bows gallantly to Eponine. “You must be Eponine. Marguerite has said much about you.”

“How much can it be, considering I only met her just a few days ago?” Eponine quips. She waves at Marguerite, who is emerging from the car. “The team will do all they can for Mr. Ffoulkes, He has a head injury but hopefully it’s not serious.”

Marguerite quickly walks up to stand at Percy’s side. “Glad to finally see you again after all this time, Enjolras. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Don’t we always, Marguerite. Demmed troubles,” Percy remarks. He glances towards the emergency room. “Well now our dear Ffoulkes is in good hands. You were obviously down at the docks to catch the trouble, I hear?”

“Unintentionally,” Enjolras replies. “I do not suggest we talk about this here.”

“My office then,” Eponine offers. “It’s just to the left, you can’t miss it.” She hangs back to let the Blakeneys walk ahead before turning to look at Enjolras again. “This just can’t keep on happening.”

It is then that Enjolras realizes how pale Eponine is, which something that doesn’t happen all that often. “It was a crime scene. Usually it doesn’t play out this way.”

“I know. But Chetta said I shouldn’t worry or stress out, and nor should you, but _how_ is that possible if you carry on like this?”

“I’ll be more careful, I promise.”

She bites her lip as she looks at him for a long moment. “I’ll hold you to that. I definitely will. I can’t do this alone, Auguste.”


	9. Chapter 9

****

**Chapter 9: On What We Must Agree With**

‘ _Every man or woman needs a pacifier, but mine just happens to come in a cup,’_  Eponine tells herself ruefully as she opens up a sachet of instant decaffeinated coffee and tips it into a cup of hot water. She perches her elbows on the cafeteria table and waits for the brew to steep for a few moments before steeling herself to take a sip. Objectively speaking there should be no difference between this cup or any other cup of coffee as far as taste is concerned, but the mere knowledge of its adulteration is enough to have her setting it aside. She groans as she takes a look at the clock; it’s been five minutes since she’s left her office on the pretext of getting a drink, but she has yet to feel her nervousness and worry even begin to dissipate. “It’s going to be a long seven months without coffee. Nice going kiddo,” she mutters as she pats her middle.

 “After a while you don’t go looking for it anymore,” Marguerite chimes in as she walks up with a steaming cup of egg drop soup. “I was at that point five years ago.”

Eponine cracks a smile as she picks up her drink. “Boy or girl?”

“Boy. He’s Percy Blakeney the Second, but he mostly goes by Junior,” Marguerite replies. She smiles sympathetically as she stirs her soup. “It’s not easy, my dear. Sometimes you don’t know what’s more maddening: the man or the mission. I daresay that you can’t live without either.”

The doctor lets out a breath she did not know she had been holding. “You’d know from being married.”

“Also from having a brother, friends, and schoolmates who are just as cavalier,” Marguerite points out. “You’ve met my brother. He’s among the best of men, but I would have to say that his idea of planning isn’t quite the same as Percy’s.” 

“It’s manageable,” Eponine quips, even as she remembers the misadventure she and Enjolras got into with Armand St-Just only over half a year ago. “Your friend Ffoulkes is married as well?”

“To another good friend, Suzanne,” Marguerite says with a nod as they start walking back to Eponine’s office. “She should be here in a while, once she’s found someone to watch her kids.”

Eponine cringes just from imagining the quandary that Marguerite’s friend must be enduring. “She’s not part of your organization?”

“Not directly,” Marguerite pauses to take a sip of her soup. “She helps with contacts, organizing events, but nothing of the day to day work. That’s mostly Andrew’s job and his business.”

Eponine manages to take another sip of her coffee without grimacing. “Doesn’t it ever get a little problematic, if you know what I mean?”

“It suits them---meaning she’s safe and happy, he’s content that she’s secure,” Marguerite says. “Of course, not _all_ of us in this world are amenable to such things.”

“I see,” Eponine says. It reminds her a little too much of the debacles that her friends Combeferre and Florence had just weathered but she is not about to voice out any comparisons to a stranger’s affairs. It is just as well that she feels her phone begin to vibrate in her pocket. She takes a deep breath as she picks up the call. “Hello Pontmercy. How is the patient doing?”

“I just got him out of the CT scan room, and he’s stable,” Marius answers cheerily. “There are no intracranial haemorrhages or contusions, so he should recover quickly. His wife is here at the CT scan, tending to him. From a neurological standpoint he can go home, but be kept under close observation.”

“Thank you,” Eponine says before relaying the news to Marguerite. She looks around and catches sight of Enjolras walking up to them. “I thought you’d be waiting at my office,” she says, fighting to keep the rancor out of her voice.

“I decided against waiting, especially since Blakeney himself has gone off to ask about Ffoulkes,” Enjolras answers. “My apologies for intruding,” he adds when he sees Marguerite.

“No, you two need to talk. Believe me. I’ll be with Percy at the CT scan,” Marguerite says seriously. She squeezes Eponine’s shoulder. “You’ll do just fine,” she whispers before walking off in the direction of the Radiology department.

Enjolras glances back in the direction from which he came. “I got in touch with Bahorel and Feuilly. They want to meet up here too.”

“We may as well, till Ffoulkes is properly discharged,” Eponine concurs. “The only injury he’s got is that gash at the back of his head, but that’s taken care of. So you guys were attacked by a group?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Whatever happened to not stressing out?”

“We started this case, we’ll finish it,” she replies adamantly. All the same she’s glad the conversation has swung in this direction. She takes a minute to finish drinking more of her coffee. “The lack of closure is going to drive both of us nuts.”

“Point taken.” He uncrosses his arms as he gives her a sidelong glance. “I mean it when I say that I will be careful.”

“And how long is that going to last? We have this case, but what about the next case, then the next?” she demands. “We can’t keep on running into danger.”  

“So are you suggesting we just drop everything?” Enjolras asks.

“No! That’s not going to work either.” She bites her lip, knowing that she cannot ask him such a thing, no more than he can extract such a ban from her. “It was one thing last year when it was just the two of us, but now we’ve got a kid. That changes everything.”

“Eponine, I’m also doing this for him or her. Our child deserves to grow up in a world without the impunities we’ve both grown up with,” he points out.

“I know, and it’s a wonderful thing, but that’s not going to matter if one or both of us are absent, Auguste,” she insists. “I’m not saying we ought to quiet down, move out to the suburbs and do the entire soccer dad and mom thing, but I just don’t want to be using the past tense when I tell our child about you.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Says the one I’ve had to see in this ER before.”

 “So do you mean I should do less fieldwork?”

“Less dangerous fieldwork, I think. You’re just going to have to trust people to help you with the dodgier side of things.”

He grimaces at this prospect. “As it is, I’ve already downsized Courfeyrac’s case work and assigned him to less perilous matters. I don’t know if I should ask more out of Feuilly, Bahorel, and Bossuet.”

She sighs at his illustration of his working situation. “Must it be just the five of you on top of things? I’ve always thought you were undermanned out there,” she points out. “I mean, you can at least get some help with the paperwork or rely on other agencies to help you with the legwork.”

Enjolras’ expression is pensive as he meets her eyes but at last he squeezes her hand as he closes the distance between them. “I’ll look into it.”

Eponine nods, knowing that at least this is a start, however small. “Thank you.”  She leans in to plant a kiss on his cheek, laughing when he goes red under the attention, “Anyway you won’t be the only one making adjustments soon.”

“Point taken,” he says with a teasing smirk as he slips an arm around her shoulders.

She laughs as she nestles closer to him, but that’s only till she hears her phone beginning to beep. To her surprise it’s Feuilly trying to call her. “Hey Feuilly, what’s going on?” she asks.

“Hello Eponine. I got a text from the Chief that there’s a meeting in your office. It’s locked though,” Feuilly greets.

“Locked?” Eponine repeats but even as she says this she catches Enjolras swallowing hard. “Auguste, did you lock the door on your way out?” she asks as she covers the mouthpiece with her hand.

“Yes. Force of habit,” he admits. “You have your keys?”

Eponine quickly checks her pockets, only to come up with her coin purse and her hospital ID “They were in my work tote...” she trails off just as she sees Enjolras beginning to turn red. She claps her free hand over her mouth but it’s too late to hold back an unladylike snort. “Us and our habits....” 

“Well now Bahorel and Percy are texting me about where we’ll meet now,” Enjolras mutters, holding up his phone that has some new messages. “You’re still on the line with Feuilly.”

“Oops,” Eponine whispers. “Sorry about that, Feuilly. I’ll be along in a few minutes to pick it. See you,” she says into the phone before quickly ending the call.

“Are you really allowed to pick locks around here?” Enjolras asks as they begin walking together.

“No one says we are _not_ allowed to,” she points out even while she catches sight of Marguerite walking up to them, with Percy following close behind and pushing Andrew in a wheelchair. Also with them is a slightly built young woman with her flax colored hair put up in a single long braid. ‘ _This must be Suzanne,’_ she realizes as she nods to them by way of greeting.

“Have we interrupted a moment?” Percy asks them cheerily.

“On the contrary we are about to impinge on your conversation,” Enjolras deadpans.

Eponine elbows her spouse discreetly before looking to Suzanne. “It’s good of you to come here, Mrs. Ffoulkes. Your husband is a brave man,” she says.  

“Of course he is,” Suzanne says proudly as she gives Andrew a hug from behind. “You should have taken better care of him,” she tells Enjolras more balefully.

“My apologies then for the trouble this has caused you,” Enjolras tells her stiffly.

“Suzanne my dear, if it wasn’t for Enjolras, I would have fared far worse on the floor,” Andrew reminds his wife gently. “No luck finding the girl?” he asks Enjolras.

“Perhaps Feuilly will have found something; I asked him to pass by and check the dock house records,” Enjolras replies.

 Marguerite nods before giving Suzanne a significant look. “We’ll meet up later, and we won’t keep Andrew out late. It’s just a few minutes.”

“Thank you again, Marguerite,” Suzanne whispers before hugging first her friend, then Percy, and finally giving Andrew a kiss before she nods to Eponine and Enjolras. “I have to go. Maybe I’ll get to meet you again soon,” she adds.

“You will---“Eponine begins but Suzanne moves far too quickly out of earshot. She sees Enjolras shrug; clearly this has happened before. ‘ _If that is the case, no wonder Marguerite thinks she’ll be so easily overwhelmed,’_ she notes as she walks ahead to pick the lock on her office door. 

As she rounds a bend in the hallway, she notices a light coming from the general direction of the office door, as well as the sound of Feuilly’s voice haranguing a much calmer one. She pauses in her tracks to listen, and perhaps get help if necessary. “Of all people on earth....” Eponine whispers, now recognizing who her friend is speaking to.

Enjolras, who is not far behind, stops as well. “We should call security.”

“Maybe,” Eponine whispers as she now crosses the last few steps to the doorway. She knocks on the jamb. “Feuilly? Who helped you get in?” she calls.

“Are you seriously going to thank him instead of me, Ponine?” a deep voice drawls.

Eponine steels herself to step into the office, where she now can clearly see Feuilly standing by her desk, glaring at the dark-haired, grinning interloper seated in her chair. She takes a moment to stare down this newcomer. “Get your dirty shoes off my desk, Montparnasse. You’d better have a good reason for turning up here.”


	10. Chapter 10

****

**Chapter 10: The Cold Trail**

As far as Feuilly is concerned he is made for dealing with the heat of warm bodies and not with paper. ‘ _This is not the first time that the police blotters have yielded little but drivel,’_ he reminds himself as he surveys what few photocopied pages he has been able to glean from his visit to the downtown police precinct, which are little more than a laundry list of vandalism, brawls, and the occasional burglary or mauling. ‘ _So much for the theory of the Difunto gang moving on to higher crime,’_ he notes as he carefully tucks the documents away in his bag and leans against the still locked door of his friend’s office.

After a few moments Feuilly hears the strong cadence of footsteps in the hallway, but when he turns to greet this newcomer he finds himself faced with another familiar but more unwelcome face.  “Hello Montparnasse. This isn’t the time for a social visit,” Feuilly says.

“Who says I’m interested?” Montparnasse retorts coolly. He reaches over to try the doorknob and chuckles as he shakes his head. “I see Eponine finally wised up and learned to lock the door.”

“She’s not careless,” Feuilly mutters. He raises his eyebrows when he sees Montparnasse bring out a small metal pick from his pocket. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting us a cooler place to sit. It’s sweltering out here,” Montparnasse replies even as the lock opens with a barely audible ‘click’. He pushes the door open. “After you.”

“Eponine is going to kill you for this---“ Feuilly warns but it doesn’t stop Montparnasse from sauntering into the office and sitting down in the most comfortable chair there. “You can’t just break and enter people’s workplaces!”

“The lock is perfectly fine,” Montparnasse says, waving in the direction of the door. He leans back in the desk chair and puts his feet on the tabletop. “Don’t squawk about it.”

Feuilly grits his teeth at this display of arrogance. “If you have something useful, then say it now.”

“Come on, nothing comes for free,” Montparnasse taunts.  “Have _you_ forgotten?”

“Not for a minute,” Feuilly mutters **,** marching over now with every intention of pulling Montparnasse out of his seat. He is halfway there when he catches that telltale flash of metal in the conman’s hand.”I’m calling security,” he warns.

Montparnasse sneers as he crosses his legs. “They used to say you could take down any of those guards with a flick of your wrist.” 

“Who’s they?”

“Those downtown fellows. _Difunto_.”

Feuilly feels his blood run cold at the mention of this gang, tough perhaps this shouldn’t surprise him entirely given what he knows of Montparnasse’s connections. “Since when?”

“Since not,” Montparnasse said. “I don’t hang around with people who can’t shoot straight.”

“So what are you doing, giving them up?” Feuilly demands. “That’s dangerous, traitorous and stupid.”

Montparnasse twirls the blade in his hand. “I know that there is no way that Eponine will venture to investigate the gang herself. You boys like keeping your hands clean. Consider this my doing you all a very big favor.”

“It’s not a favor with your style of negotiation,” Feuilly shoots back. “If I were you—“

A knock sounds on the door. “Feuilly? Who helped you get in?” Eponine calls.

Montparnasse laughs and leans back in the seat, putting his hands behind his head. “Are you seriously going to thank him instead of me, Ponine?”

In a moment Eponine walks into the office, and scowls when she sees that her seat is occupied. “Get your dirty shoes off my desk, Montparnasse. You’d better have a good reason for turning up here,” she says as she puts her hands akimbo.

“You’ll be thanking me in a minute, dear,” Montparnasse says. He waves at Enjolras, who is just a pace behind Eponine. “Nice seeing you again, Attorney.”

Enjolras looks Montparnasse over and crosses his arms. “Should I remind you of what transpired the last time you turned up here?”

For a moment Montparnasse appears to blanch but he simply holds up a hand and gets to his feet in order to let Eponine have the chair. “You could have just asked for information. This time I am most willing to give it.”

Feuilly pauses when he sees Andrew Ffoulkes and Percy Blakeney enter the office, followed by Marguerite and Bahorel. “He appears to know something about the _Difunto_ gang, Chief,” he announces, directing his words to Enjolras.

 “Isn’t that one of the downtown syndicates?” Marguerite asks sceptically.

Eponine nods. “Never thought you’d run around with small fry,” she says to Montparnasse.

“Ah, we are still of the same mind,” Montparnasse replies. “Anyone who has a brain in that crew has moved on to deeper water.”

 “But not out of the area. The police blotter on them is still active,” Feuilly points out in an undertone.

 “Please. Those are the ones who don’t have the balls to do more than break a few windows,” Montparnasse says. “You’ve been turning over stones in the wrong place.” 

“Prove it,” Enjolras challenges.

Percy whistles as he rubs his hands together. “That’s a pretty demmed unfriendly way of asking.”

“We’re trying to work here, Blakeney,” Enjolras says tersely over his shoulder.

“I think I like his style better. Snappy,” Montparnasse says, gesturing to Percy’s expensive looking suit. “You ought to take a few hints from him, Attorney Enjolras.”

The lawyer fixes Montparnasse with a glare. “Enough. What have you got?”

Montparnasse brings a flashdrive out of his pocket, dangling it by a small piece of cord. “You don’t need to give this back; I won it in a raffle.”

“I’ve got this one---and a good antivirus program,” Bahorel says as he steps forward and snatches the gadget out of Montparnasse’s hand.

Enjolras holds up a hand. “Anything more?”

Montparnasse looks around and fixes his gaze on Marguerite. “This will get unpleasant. Eponine is used to it; she cuts people up for a living but you don’t look the sort.”

“If it’s a little blood, well then I’m a woman and used to it,” Marguerite replies with a charming smile.

Montparnasse whistles as he brings out a piece of paper from his pocket. “Fished out of a river this morning. As to why she’s photographed, well I’m not the sickest person in this city,” he mutters as he throws the picture onto the desk. “You know this one?”

Marguerite pales as she picks up the photo. “It’s Charlotte.” She is nearly shaking as she looks at Percy and Andrew. “We were too late.”

Feuilly feels his stomach lurch even as he turns his eyes away from that bloated, gruesome visage captured on paper. It’s no time to let on that he’s never been good with these scenes, despite his extensive experience in community work. “Did you at least take her to the morgue or a funeral home?” he manages to ask Montparnasse.

“At least to a place to lie in,” Montparnasse replies, scrawling an address down and handing it to Percy.

“Wait, do you have news of another girl?” Andrew blurts out. He brings out his phone and opens up a video captured there. “There. Her,” he says when he freezes the footage and points to the slightly blurred image of a teenage girl with short, slightly dishevelled hair, fleeing from an old woman’s outstretched hand.

Percy shakes his head when he looks at the picture. “Same ticket booth trick. Poor child.”

“I have no news of that one,” Montparnasse drawls. “That ticket booth trick is going to disappear fast. I’d quit combing the ports if I were you.”

“Where do we start then?” Andrew asks.

“Do I look like a mindreader to you?” Montparnasse asks sourly.

“Is this all the information you have to volunteer? You may no longer have the opportunity to do so when we establish what the _Difunto_ gang’s part is with these recent events,” Enjolras says as he levels a serious look at Montparnasse.

“It’s all in the files,” Montparnasse says, waving at the flashdrive that Bahorel is still holding. “What do you want, a guided tour throughout their territory?”

“We’ll let you know,” Enjolras replies. “Does anyone else have any questions for him?”

“The fact that he’s here after so many reversals is fishy. How did you know to come here?” Eponine chimes in.

“Please. I’ve known you for years, and your husband here has a reputation for the difficult. Besides, I know which groups like looking for the missing. Fine shepherds you all will be,” Montparnasse says, glancing as well at Andrew and the two Blakeneys. He smiles wryly at Eponine. “The old man sends his regards. He’s walking again.”

Eponine nods. “Good. Stay out of trouble, Montparnasse.”

“Remember your manners next time,” Feuilly mutters as he steps aside to let Montparnasse leave the room. He grits his teeth when he sees Eponine let out a breath of relief while Bahorel rubs his temples. “What happened the last time he came here?” he asks Enjolras.

“I simply made it clear that considering his ambiguous records, he is hardly in any position to be striking any deal,” Enjolras deadpans.

It is all that Feuilly can do not to look at Eponine then, for he knows that whatever leverage Enjolras has on Montparnasse is tied to this woman’s past. “At least he’s proving to be useful.”

“Like making a weapon out of a cobra. You’d better hope it doesn’t turn tail and bite,” Bahorel remarks.

“So we lost one girl, and there’s another still out there,” Marguerite whispers. “She could be anywhere in this city, or even out of this city by now.”

“She escaped at her supposed drop off point, but she might have been picked up anyway down the road,” Enjolras points out. “When we pinpoint the women who were crowding her at the dock house, we may be able to find her as well.”

“Assuming they were even women,” Percy jokes. “They look goodly disguised.”

Feuilly winces, already anticipating more hours of reviewing musters and CCTV footage. “Are you sure about that?”

“It is the only lead we have. Montparnasse is right in saying that the ticket booth MO will be closed after what happened today,” Eponine says glumly.

“Once busted, always rusted,” Blakeney concurs.

Enjolras nods grimly. “All the same we’d better start looking.” He is silent for a few moments, clearly pondering what their next move ought to be. “Unfortunately we will have to dredge the river. There may be others.”    

‘ _Not just from this city,’_ Feuilly realizes. He grips the doorjamb if only to hide the shudder that courses through him. “How then, are we going to find anyone who is alive?”

“Finding someone else who will talk,” Enjolras replies seriously. “I know what they say about forensics, but the truth is dead men don’t really tell any tales.”


	11. Chapter 11

****

**Chapter 11: Anything for the Girl**

Summer is always a season for adventure, as far as Courfeyrac is concerned. After all there is enough daylight and moonlight for spur-of-the-moment road trips with his colleagues, for outrageous performances in cafes and boulevards, or meeting new faces within the labyrinth that is the metropolis. ‘ _Whoever thought that a living room floor could be more challenging?’_ he finds himself thinking one day just after breakfast as he’s on his hands and knees, following Alexandra in her first attempt to crawl from one end of the room to the other.  “Come on Alex, you can do it!” he whispers when he sees the little girl hesitate and look around anxiously. He scoots over so that he is next to her, and somehow the sight of him has her giggling. “Daddy will be with you. Want to race?”

A cough sounds from the next room. “Say cheese you two!” Azelma calls as she holds up her phone. She laughs as she shows her husband the picture she has just taken, complete with his surprised expression coupled with Alexandra’s gleeful grin. “It’s so cute, you two are in Hawaiian prints!”

“Blame the weather,” Courfeyrac retorts. It’s just as well that he is not expected at the office till afternoon, since he can have more time to lounge about in a t-shirt and a colourful pair of shorts. “I like the aesthetic it requires,” he adds, smiling appreciatively at the sight of Azelma wearing her favourite pink sundress.

Azelma rolls her eyes as she reaches over to pinch his rear.  “We’re going to end up giving Alex a sibling if you keep looking at me that way,” she whispers.

“I thought that breastfeeding was supposed to help space things?” Courfeyrac asks.

“That only works up to a certain point in time. It’s been seven months, and it’s probably not going to work as well anymore,” Azelma points out. She grins when Alex crawls up to her and sits down, holding out her arms to be carried. “Tired out already, baby?” she asks as she scoops up the child.

Courfeyrac sighs at having their playtime cut short, but then again it’s only been a few days since their daughter discovered she could crawl in lieu of just rolling around the floor. “We’re not through yet, kiddo,” he says, pressing Alex’s nose lightly just to make her laugh again. “Now that she’s crawling we have to cover everything like the electric sockets.”

“Then next step, the stairs---I give it a month till she starts pulling herself to her feet and cruising,” Azelma says proudly. She turns at the sound of the doorbell ringing. “Could you get that?” she asks.

“Alright boss,” Courfeyrac drawls, earning him another pinch that he cannot quite dodge before he goes to the door. It’s all he can do to keep a straight face when he sees who’s visiting. “Hi Florence. I thought you’d be on vacation.”

“I was out for a week---mountain climbing---but something happened last night and it has to do with Daniel,” Florence says in a tone that is both anxious and excited. Even her glasses can’t quite hide the giddy look in her eyes “I want to talk to Enjolras and Eponine about it too, but I know they’re both at work, so I figured I’d run it by you first.”

“You’re a grown woman, Flor, and you suddenly sound like a teenage girl,” Azelma says amusedly as she walks up to them, still bouncing Alexandra in her arms. “What’s he done to you?”

Florence doesn’t say anything at first but she pauses to ruffle Alexandra’s hair before quickly going to sit in an armchair. She sets down her handbag as Courfeyrac, Azelma, and Alexandra all pile onto the sofa. “Daniel and I were talking last night, and suddenly the subject of moving in came up,” she says slowly.

“Moving in together? That’s great!” Azelma exclaims happily. “You are going to do it, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, really. It was mentioned and it’s not as if he asked,” Florence replies, now all red and flustered. “Maybe he was leading up to it before things got awkward.”

“I hope he was. It would be a first,” Courfeyrac remarks. ‘ _For everything we all say about Bahorel’s flings, Navet never being able to get a date, Gavroche never wanting a date, or even the continued ménage a trois, Combeferre is still the one with a phobia of commitment,’_ he notes silently. “You should ask him yourself,” he suggests.

Florence starts to tap her feet uneasily.  “Should I? I might scare him.”

“The fact he mentioned it at all is a big thing, so you have to follow through,” Azelma chimes in. “Maurice is right; it would be a first, and it better be an only.”

“If I’m going to do it, I’m going to edge the matter in gently,” Florence says thoughtfully.  “Maybe mention the fact that I have more housing options since I have tenure.”

“That’s a start. Dragging him to furniture stores might help too,” Courfeyrac suggests.

“I think that’s a bit much; I may as well ask him in neon lights then,” Florence laughs.  “You think he’d say yes though?” she asks a bit more hopefully.

“As sure as the sun rises,” Courfeyrac replies. He notices Azelma motioning for him to follow her into the kitchen. “Well this is good news!” he says cheerily.

“It is, but you’d better keep it under your hat,” Azelma warns as she adjusts her hold on the baby. “You can’t just go around telling everyone about it, or he’ll back out!”

“What if it’s the push he needs?” Courfeyrac asks. “If everyone knows---“

“It’s putting their relationship on display!” Azelma hisses. “Come on, I know we had this talk with him about hiding stuff but this is another ball game. He needs time.”

He sighs, knowing that his wife has a point. “Alright, I’ll be discreet.”

She grins and gives him a sloppy kiss on the lips. “Don’t mess it up,” she whispers. She laughs when Alex gurgles and waves her hands. “See, she agrees with me.”

“I am helpless before you ladies,” Courfeyrac drawls dramatically even as he hears his phone begin to ring. ‘ _This is more than speaking of the devil,’_ he realizes when he sees that it’s Enjolras calling him up. “Hey, the weekend isn’t over till after lunch!”

“Courf, there’s been a development,” Enjolras says urgently. “We’ll meet at the Fauchelevents’ house in half an hour.”

 “What sort of development?” Courfeyrac asks. “Didn’t we prosecute some of the people who were holding our witnesses at the sweatshop?”

“We finally have an ID on our escapee from the pier.”

‘ _So the trail isn’t cold anymore,’_ Courfeyrac realizes, allowing himself to finally feel some hope. Six weeks is far longer than most people would give in a search for a nameless girl, but then again he, his family, and his friends are not _most_ people, and this is certainly not an ordinary case. “Who found her?” he asks but then the cellphone connection gets choppy and he is forced to hang up. He looks to see Azelma giving him a serious, knowing look. “I have to go in, now.”

Azelma sighs deeply. “I’m going to tell my _dear_ brother-in-law that he ought to wait a few more hours. It’s the weekend.”

“Zel, we have a breakthrough on that case we’ve been trying to solve all summer. You know that Enjolras wouldn’t call if it wasn’t desperately urgent,” Courfeyrac explains.

“His definition of urgent is sometimes questionable,” Azelma huffs.

Courfeyrac laughs weakly. “It is. But that girl we’ve been tracking, well she’s been found.”

Azelma’s jaw drops. “So she’s alive? I thought you guys were dredging the river.”

“We always thought she’s alive, but we just wanted to cover all bases.” He clasps his wife’s arm gently. “She’s someone’s daughter too. I want to make sure she gets home

“Oh Maurice....” Azelma trails off as she glances down at Alexandra and then back at him. “Fine then. As long as you’re back here in time for dinner. You promised to help me feed her something new today.”

“I’ll make sure to insist,” Courfeyrac promises her. Thankfully it’s become far easier to negotiate these matters with his colleagues, especially after the events of earlier this year. He sighs before kissing Alexandra’s forehead. “We’ll race again later, Alex. In the meantime, you watch your Mama and your Aunt Flor for me, okay?” he says. Of course his daughter coos and reaches for him, and it takes all his resolve to step away after giving her a last pat on the head.

He manages to arrive at the Fauchelevent house a few minutes earlier than he expects, which is just as well since he immediately catches sight of Marius looking quite shell-shocked on the doorstep as he’s trying to take a call. “Who’s in there, Pontmercy?” Courfeyrac asks him by way of greeting.

“Enjolras, Feuilly, Bossuet---and for some reason Blakeney and Ffoulkes too?!” Marius whispers, clearly flabbergasted and overwhelmed. “How did this happen?”

“Marguerite’s doing. She’s the one who brought us all on board,” Courfeyrac explains.

“I know that part, but this is a bit much,” Marius groans. “Just listening to Enjolras and Blakeney argue has given even Elodie a headache.”

Courfeyrac clasps his shoulder sympathetically. “I’m sorry. So what are they doing here?”

“Apparently Dad---meaning Cosette’s dad was able to enhance some video footage and something there confirmed the identity of a girl who was taken to Saint Michel this morning,” Marius says as he wipes his forehead. “She’s Musichetta’s patient.”

 Courfeyrac nods before leading his friend back into the house. He has to stop to take in the scene that greets them: for one thing it’s been years since he’s seen Feuilly fuming for being at the wrong end of Percy Blakeney’s joking. Some paces away, Andrew Ffoulkes, Bossuet, and Mr. Fauchelevent are peering at something on a computer screen.”So who is it?” Courfeyrac asks as he finds a seat next to the coffee table.

“Her name is Clara Gardner, or at least that was the name she gave,” Andrew supplies. “Last seen at the pier, and now today too at Saint-Michel.”

“As Musichetta’s patient?” Courfeyrac clarifies as he gets a look at a screen capture from the pier. The frozen frame shows clearly the image of a young girl who is probably about seventeen years old, with short brown hair and wild, frightened brown eyes.

Mr. Fauchelevent nods grimly. “She was rescued from a certain sort of establishment.”

Courfeyrac feels as if something has socked him in the gut as it dawns on him what they are referring to. The fact that Percy has stopped laughing only confirms the matter. “Then what happened?”

“It seems as if Chetta got to her in time to save her life,” Bossuet explains. “It was grisly. I can’t even look at the pictures.”

“Speaking of pictures, where is Bahorel?” Courfeyrac asks.

“We can’t get to him,” Feuilly mutters. “His phone just keeps ringing out.”

“Maybe he’s asleep---that’s the result of dirty living for you,” Percy quips.

“It’s not like him to miss the action,” Courfeyrac points out. ‘ _If it is indeed that sort of caper that has him still abed, then it must be a good one,’_ he decides as he looks to see Enjolras walking in from the lanai, apparently in the middle of a video call.

“Two hours in post-op then?” Enjolras asks. He frowns at the answer he hears. “Then observation for a whole day....can’t it be any sooner? The ones behind this are still at large.” He sighs and nods after a while. “Fine. I won’t start the inquiry till tomorrow. Good thing you’ve got some training in this department. I understand, you won’t admit her into the psych acute care ward unless you absolutely need to. That’s good. Thank you, Eponine.”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes as he goes up to clasp Enjolras’ shoulder. “Giving my sister-in-law again a hard time?” he asks.

“I’m trying not to,” Enjolras says in an undertone. He holds up the phone. “Look who’s here.”

“Hello Courf!” Eponine greets cheerily from the other side of the video call. She’s still in her red scrubs, and as loose as these garments are they cannot hide the now obvious bump of her middle. “How are Zel and Alex today?”

“Good---and not exactly pleased that your husband hauled me out of home to here,” Courfeyrac informs her. “So this is a bad case?”

“Very bad. She’s lucky to be alive,” Eponine says. “Combeferre and Chetta are helping me type up the medico legal report. I’ll get them here on the line too.”

Courfeyrac smiles when he sees Combeferre, Joly, and Musichetta crowding around Eponine. All three of them are also clad in scrubs, and in fact Musichetta is using a mask as a headband. “Good job guys,” he greets.

“Always happy to help,” Musichetta says. Her voice is croaky and exhausted but she is definitely grinning from ear to ear. “You boys had better take good care of her, okay? She’s still pretty much a kid.”

“Seventeen still counts as paediatrics,” Joly informs him. “So this is one of those ‘referred to the universe’ situations since it’s rather complex. She’s also got a bit of a bug and other things going on, so that puts her on my deck as well.”

“Ouch. So who’s the doc in charge?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Me, but if you’re going to go medico legal, then that’s Eponine’s part,” Musichetta explains.

“So what exactly happened? They say she was found,” Courfeyrac says, noting now that little Elodie has now wandered into the room to pester her adoptive grandfather.

“Police raid downtown. Incidental.” Eponine sighs. “The officer found she didn’t have an ID so he checked the missing persons’ desk and came across the file that you boys made.”

‘ _At least the police are getting better at their job,’_ Courfeyrac thinks.”So how’s the kid doing---I mean _your_ kid specifically?”

“Great. I can’t feel the baby move yet but at least I’m not retching all the time,” Eponine says. She bites her lip as she checks something on the desk. “I’ll get back to you guys in a bit,” she says quickly.

Courfeyrac nods before handing the phone back to Enjolras and then retreating to the sofa. As soon as he’s there Elodie springs over to sit next to him. “What have you been up to this summer?” he asks her.

 “Watching cartoons all day!” Elodie says cheerily. She bounces on the sofa. “I’m going swimming later with Mama, Papa, Uncle Grantaire, Uncle Jehan, and Darren.”

Courfeyrac looks to where Cosette is sauntering in, carrying two tote bags. “Seriously, Cosette? Your husband is like a cat where water is concerned.”

“Really? He’s the one who was hogging the shower this morning,” Cosette says as she passes by the seats. She kisses the top of Marius’ head.  “Ready to go?”

“In a while,” Marius says. He pulls her down to sit in his lap, which elicits snickering from everyone else except from Elodie. “It’s a really bad case, sorry.”

Cosette nods and slips her arm around Marius’ shoulder. “Do you need some help there, Papa?” she asks Mr. Fauchelevent.

“I’ll be fine here,” Mr. Fauchelevent says amiably. “Where’s your mother?”

Cosette gestures to the lanai. “She’s still working on that pine bonsai.”

“Remind me to take her shopping for a new pair of shears later,” Mr. Fauchelevent mutters.

“She’d like that. Is anyone staying home at all today?” Cosette remarks.

In the meantime Courfeyrac turns his attention back to their friends.  Trying to call Bahorel now?” he asks, seeing Feuilly bring out his own phone.

“I think he has a sock on the door,” Feuilly mutters.

Elodie looks at him. “What for?”

Feuilly pauses to look at her. “He’s making a mess, that’s all.” He puts the phone on speaker mode. “There, he gets to join the party.”

Courfeyrac sits back to listen to the phone ringing once, then twice. Suddenly there is the click of someone taking the call. “Hello?” a distinctly female voice greets.

The silence only reigns for a split second before Courfeyrac can’t help the laugh that escapes his lips. Bossuet, Percy, and Andrew have forgotten all discretion as they guffaw uproariously; Mr. Fauchelevent and Cosette are chuckling, while Marius, Enjolras, and Feuilly trade long-suffering looks, more so when laughter comes from the still ongoing conference call with the doctors.

Elodie tugs on Feuilly’ sleeve. “Uncle Feuilly, what’s so funny?”

“Nothing, your Uncle Bahorel is just in big trouble,” Feuilly says in a singsong tone. “Feuilly speaking. Officer Hooper, I presume?”

“Yes, that’s me,” the lady replies awkwardly. “Remy, I’m sorry, I meant Bahorel, can’t come to the phone just yet—“   

“That’s not the only thing that’s come that’s for sure,” Bossuet cackles. “So how was last night?”

“Bossuet! _My daughter_ is still in the room!” Cosette calls reprovingly.

“Hey Karen, who are you talking to----oh snap. Now?” Bahorel’s voice chimes in. “Feuilly, it’s a summer Saturday, what the hell are you calling for?”

“Case work. We’ve got a lead,” Feuilly says. “That’s for your benefit too Officer Hooper.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes as he ends his own conference call, and then picks up Feuilly’s phone and switches off the speaker mode. “I’ll take it from here,” he says before going off to the stairs to continue the conversation more discreetly.

“Too demmed serious after all this time,” Percy remarks as he shakes his head. “Perhaps the felicity of the married hasn’t set in yet.”

“Percy, we are working on a case after all,” Andrew points out.

“Though with him as a father....” Percy trails off. He looks to the rest of the group. “You’ve met Bahorel’s fair lady too?”

“She’s the cousin of a friend, but that’s our only connection besides Bahorel,” Feuilly says. He casts a glance towards where Enjolras is still on the phone. “At least Enjolras waited for Eponine to sign out of his case before he asked her out. Bahorel is dating on the job.”

“It’s a different story Feuilly, and the rules don’t say he can’t. Anyway I looked her up online and she seems pretty classy,” Bossuet chimes in. “Perhaps we should invite her over for drinks some time?”

“Don’t corrupt her. Bahorel doesn’t need to be enabled,” Feuilly grouses.

“He’s got you anyway,” Courfeyrac teases. He’s not sure as to the beginnings of this entire thing of Feuilly being the straight laced one to Bahorel’s being the personification of orderly chaos, but it’s part of what makes their team work. ‘ _How long will it hold though?’_ he wonders silently though. It’s the first time that Bahorel has mentioned a woman more than thrice over the span of a month, or in this case, nearly six weeks.

In the meantime Cosette nods to Elodie and Marius. “Okay I think it’s time for us to go; Grantaire did say we’d meet before lunch,” she says. 

Marius salutes to his friends as he gets to his feet. “Sorry my friends. We’ll catch up next ramen night.”

“At your place, am I right?” Cosette asks Courfeyrac. “I’ve got a good deal on a new kind of tofu that we could use then.”

“Yeah, our place. Wednesday,” Courfeyrac agrees. “Is it smelly tofu? Zel was asking about it.”

“I think so, but maybe the reputation is exaggerated. I’ll let you two know,” Cosette assures him sweetly.

Elodie hugs her grandfather before going to give Enjolras a high-five. “See you soon!” she chirps, waving to everyone before she hops up to Cosette and takes her hand as they walk out the door, followed closely by Marius.

‘ _It won’t be long till Alex is at that age,’_ Courfeyrac realizes as he joins everyone else to continue reviewing the footage and making notes. While part of him still wishes that his daughter will stay a little baby forever, he is more excited to see just how cheeky, vivacious, and adorable Alexandra will turn out to be. He glances down at his phone, which has a new wallpaper that is a more recent picture of his family out enjoying the first day of summer in the park. He smiles, resolving once more to make good on his promise to his girls; he has reason to hope they will be done with work at a reasonable hour especially given how the pace has suddenly picked up.

By twelve-thirty, they all leave for their respective errands and casework. For Courfeyrac this means going out to the mall to pick up some groceries, a few things for Alexandra, as well as some coffee for himself. ‘ _Then, the paperwork,’_ he decides as he finds a seat at a sidewalk cafe and opens up his laptop to begin organizing files in preparation for what he knows will be quite a storm. As he’s sipping his drink he catches sight of a woman walking out to a table, blinking as if she is unused to the summer sun. In the moment before she slips on a pair of sunglasses, Courfeyrac recognizes her. “Aunt Ari!”

Ari Enjolras nearly drops her shades. “Courfeyrac, isn’t it? I thought you’d be at work.”

“I have a flexible workplace,” Courfeyrac says, tapping his table. “Do Auguste and Eponine know you’re in town?”

“Not yet. I just flew in. I was meaning to drop in later,” Ari replies. She smiles when she catches sight of Courfeyrac’s shopping bags. “I always knew you’d be a good father. How many months old is Alex?”

“She just turned seven months old,” Courfeyrac replies proudly.

“Such a fun age, isn’t it?” Ari says as she sets down her own large cup of tea as well as her sunglasses. “So is Azelma back at work yet?”

“It’s summer, so she has a vacation at least till early next month,” Courfeyrac explains. He waits for Ari to take a sip of her drink but the lady doesn’t seem to be interested in it. . “Aunt Ari, what else are you doing in the city?”

“Seeing friends,” Ari replies quickly. “Old friends from schooldays. Did you know I used to go to college here too; that’s where I met Claude.”

“Auguste might have mentioned it.” Courfeyrac pauses to wipe his sweaty forehead; he’s pretty sure that the early afternoon temperature is approaching thirty-two degrees. He can see Ari’s makeup beginning to melt, but oddly enough she is not making any move to wipe it off or even roll up the long sleeves of her knitted blouse. “Is Uncle Claude with you?”

“Of course not. You know the man and his business.”

“How long will you be in town?”

“What did you say?” Ari asks, shaking her head as if he has just brought her out of deep thought. She glances down at her tea. “Are Auguste and Eponine busy later?”

“Hopefully not. We’re all in the middle of a case, but I am sure they will make time. Bet you’re excited to talk to Eponine especially?” Courfeyrac asks more brightly.

Ari nods more enthusiastically as she fiddles with the cuffs of her top. “Have they chosen a name yet?”

“Knowing them they’ll be debating about it all the way into the labor room,” Courfeyrac jokes. It is then though that he sees it; at first he thinks it’s his eyes tricking him, but there’s no mistaking the angry, reddened skin peeping out from under a bandage wrapped around the inside of Ari’s right forearm. “Aunt Ari, what happened there?’ he asks cautiously.

Ari looks down and her cheeks redden as she tugs down the sleeve of her shirt. “Had an accident while I was cooking.”  

Courfeyrac has to take a sip of his coffee as he watches Ari carefully. As far as he knows, Ari doesn’t cook; he cannot remember her even fixing a snack or anything light to eat whenever he, Combeferre, and their high school friends would hang out in the Enjolras home. “To be honest it looks really bad. Have you gotten it looked at?” he finally says. “Eponine or Combeferre can help you there.”

Ari shakes her head. “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt. It’s not infected.” She tugs on her sleeve again and smiles a little too widely. “Besides I’m sure they have more serious cases to treat.”

“You sure?” Courfeyrac asks, only eliciting another nod from Ari. Everything in his mind is screaming at him to ask more questions, to pull the truth out like he would do in any courtroom, but he knows deep down that Ari is pretty much done for the day. “Where are you staying?”

At last something like a smile crosses Ari’s face. “The Peninsula Inn. That’s not far from here.” She gathers up her drink. “Nice talking to you, Courfeyrac. See you around.”

“Aunt Ari---“ Courfeyrac begins but Ari is already walking away quickly, not even looking back. He watches her take a turn towards the boutiques, where she disappears into the crowd. ‘ _She’s running,’_ he realizes, and this time he doesn’t lose a moment to shut down his laptop, gather up his papers and his drink, and drive over to the law office where he knows his friend is hard at work.

As soon as he barges into the room he sees Enjolras look up from behind a huge stack of reports. “Hello Courf----“ Enjolras trails off when he sees his colleague’s harried expression. “What happened?”

“Your mom,” Courfeyrac says, sitting on the windowsill near his friend’s desk. “Your mom is in town.”

“What? When---how....you saw her?”

“At the mall. She just got in.”

Enjolras checks his phone and frowns. “She didn’t tell me.”

“She didn’t tell you or Eponine, yet. It’s not her fault,” Courfeyrac says, holding up a hand. He wonders how his friend is going to take this discussion; it’s just a hunch after all and Enjolras prefers to deal with facts but it’s worth bringing up anyway. “She’s not here with your father, and I think there’s a reason for it. She’s got this huge burn on her right arm, and she’s not having it looked at. I offered to get Eponine or Combeferre to help but she said no.”

All color drains from Enjolras’ face. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Did she say where she got it?”

“Cooking.” Courfeyrac shakes his head. “She’s staying at the Peninsula Inn. You have to contact her.”

“I will,” Enjolras says. He clenches his fists as he looks at his phone. “Did she say anything else?”

“No,” Courfeyrac replies. “You’ve been worried for a while, haven’t you?”

“Since the New Year, when she also came to visit.” Enjolras picks up his phone to send a message. “Unless my mother has been taking cooking lessons, which is one thing she swore not to do, that burn cannot be an accident.”


	12. Chapter 12

****

**Chapter 12: The Fall You Cannot Break**

Ever since she’s become a junior consultant, Eponine now makes her rounds in two steps: first with her patients in the hospital’s so-called ‘private’ wing, and then with her patients who have consented to be confined in the teaching wards. ‘ _Then there are those patients who I have to meet alone,’_ she thinks the following Monday morning as she walks up to the nurse’s station at the hospital’s top floor. “Good news Doc E. Stable vital signs all night,” one of the nurses reports cheerily as she hands over a chart. 

“Thank goodness,” Eponine says as she begins reviewing the orders and events from the night before. It’s not a pretty picture; her patient still stands to be confined for at least a week, but it is rosier than that of 48 hours ago. All the same she grits her teeth, since the task she has at hand is far trickier than most operations she’s done. “How is Miss Gardner doing?” she asks.

“Pretty good,” the nurse says. “This is for the downstairs office, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and basically every agency that will be involved in the investigation,” Eponine replies. Everything hinges on whether she can gently draw her patient out to tell her harrowing story, whether in a trial or just as a deposition. ‘ _The latter might be better since she is in hiding, but the first may have to be part of the terms for her asylum,’_ she realizes with some distaste as she knocks on the door. Fortunately these legal decisions are not for her to make.

She finds her patient Clara Gardner sitting up in bed, with the blankets drawn up to cover the bandages that swathe her below the waist and both her legs. She would be stunning if not for her still starved frame and the gauze dressing that now covers the left half of her face. “How are you, Clara?” Eponine greets warmly.

Clara starts but quickly settles once she sees Eponine. “Are you here to deport me, Doc?” Her accent is not melodious or nasal, but somewhat more open and a little stressed, quite unlike other intonations in this part of town.

“No. What gave you that idea?” Eponine asks as she finds a chair.

Clara gives Eponine a sidelong glance even as she allows the doctor to check her over. “I’ve heard that you’re the doc that talks to the lawyers and policemen. Aren’t they the ones who do that stuff?”

“Not them,” Eponine assures her. “They’re here to help you, Clara, if you can tell them how you ended up in this city.”

Clara shakes her head. “They’ll kill me. You only get lucky three times, I’ve already used up two.”

“Who told you that?”

“My mother. Didn’t yours teach you anything?”

It is all that Eponine can do to keep a straight face at this jibe. “If that was true, I’d be a zombie by now,” she says softly. It must be the right thing to say since it makes Clara snort. “Your mother is wise though. That sort of thinking keeps you sharp.”

Clara smiles wanly. “You going to tell that to your little one there?”

“No, I’m going to teach him or her to be more careful,” Eponine says. She tugs down the hem of her scrub top, knowing it won’t be long till she’ll have to let this garment out. “But really, how are you?”

“I can’t sleep. Can you give me something for that?”

“You’re already on a lot of painkillers, Clara.”

“I need something to make me sleep so I won’t see them, ever.”

Eponine bites her lip at the desperation in the girl’s voice.  The words ‘ _I understand’_ do not leap to her lips, since she is not one to say that she knows exactly the agony that Clara has to relive; no one does.  “I can’t do that. It would hurt you more. But I’m going to try to help you make sure that those people won’t come after you again,” she finally says.

“Everyone says I’ll be safe with them,” Clara whispers. She bites her lip as she holds back a sob. “That’s what they told me the day I left home.”

“Who’s they?” Eponine asks gently.

“The ladies. They said I could find good work.” The girl trails off and shakes her head again. “That’s what they told my mother. She didn’t believe them. So I left.”

Eponine swallows hard and nods. “Where did you go?”

“Here,” Clara says curtly. “I was told to get on a cruise ship, and then when I got to the beach I was given a ticket to the river ferry.” She starts twisting the blanket. “I don’t know the name of the woman who gave me the ticket.”

This information only unsettles Eponine further but she has to keep a straight face for Clara’s sake. “But why were you running at the pier?”

“I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there, and I didn’t want to go with those ladies anymore. They still got me anyway.” Clara’s lip begins to tremble. “Now I can’t go home. No one will want me there.”

“You’ll get somewhere safe,” Eponine says. ‘ _Sometimes it’s not home,’_ she thinks. This is a feeling she knows all too well. “When you leave this hospital we’ll find a place.”

 Clara nods but it’s clear from her demeanor that she is unable to let on anything more, at least just for today. After a few minutes Eponine takes her leave, making sure to leave instructions in Clara’s chart to keep her more comfortable and rested. ‘ _Not yet,’_ she decides as she sends a voicemail to her partner, explaining Clara’s present situation. The last thing she wants is to set her patient back all for the sake of a lead in this case.

After this she heads downstairs just to check if there are any patients due to be admitted for surgery. The floor is a little quieter than usual today, owing to the fact that this summer’s batch of new interns has yet to start their tour of duty. As she walks into the emergency room she notices Navet at a table, signing off one chart after another. “Someone’s looking benign,” she jokes as she punches his shoulder and takes a seat. “What have you got?”

“Lots of asphalt related injuries. No one to be admitted yet though,” Navet replies. His ruddy cheeks go even redder as he glances towards where there is a lady tending to an elderly gentleman in a nearby bed. “There’s an old college friend.”

Eponine snorts as she elbows him again. “Why don’t you talk to her, maybe after work hours?”

Navet goes even redder. “What if she thinks I’m a creeper?”

“There’s a way of going about these things---and no, you don’t need to ask my brother or the other guys for help there,” Eponine says lightly. “Maybe you ought to meet up with her someplace where you can actually get a word in edgewise.”

“So does this mean no getting you guys to join a group date?” Navet asks in an agonized voice.

“If your idea of a good first date involves ramen and poetry that isn’t safe for work, then I’m sure that our friends would be more than willing to help,” Eponine retorts. She nods knowingly when Navet goes red again. “You’re best off finding a common interest.”

“Tabletop gaming?”

“Hey, that’s a good way to spend an evening.”

“Maybe,” Navet mutters before he signs a chart. He nearly drops his pen when he sees Combeferre now walking into the emergency room. “I still don’t have news about the referral from downtown.”

“Don’t worry, I coordinated it myself. The patient will be arriving here in fifteen minutes,” Combeferre replies candidly as he holds up his phone.  He gives Eponine a concerned look. “Is everything alright?”

“Mostly, on the surgical front,” Eponine replies. She bites her lip before she can let on too much about Clara’s plight especially in this rather public place. “Any word yet from Ari?”

Combeferre shakes his head. “She won’t let even you and Auguste visit?”

Eponine shakes her head. “She said she’d tell us when she’s ready to meet up.” Everything about Courfeyrac’s encounter with Ari is unsettling, and admittedly Eponine would give a lot to be able to resolve the mystery. ‘ _If only for everyone’s peace of mind,’_ she tells herself, but she knows this can only be possible if her gut feel is proven wrong.

“Doc, there’s someone here to pick up Officer Delaney there,” a nurse calls from the station. “Says her name is Officer Hooper.”

Navet groans as he gets to his feet. “Officer Delaney is in the holding room. I’ll deal with him.” He flips one of the charts to allow Eponine and Combeferre to view some of the details. “Mechanism of injury: motorcycle versus stationary pole. Place of injury: Precinct Nine office. Time of injury: Eight in the morning. Injuries sustained include lacerations to right upper arm and right leg knee all the way to ankle. Patient is fully conscious with a GCS of 15, no signs of fractures on x-rays of head, neck, right upper arm, and right lower extremity.”

“Was he wearing a helmet?” Combeferre asks.

“No. Rule Number One broken.”

“As usual. Alright, let’s have a look.”

Eponine goes to follow them but also catches sight of the blonde woman agitatedly filling out a form at the nurse’s desk. ‘ _Grantaire wasn’t kidding about Bahorel’s thing for blondes,’_ she thinks mischievously as she approaches the desk. “You’re Karen Hooper,” she says by way of greeting.

Karen pauses in the middle of signing the paper and looks up at Eponine. “How did you know?” she asks. She nods as she gets a look at the name stitched on Eponine’s white coat. “Still haven’t added your married name yet, Doctor Enjolras?”

“Call me Eponine. It’s much less confusing,” Eponine quips. “So it was a road accident that brought your colleague here?”

“I wish it was. He was just trying his new bike,” Karen whispers, but her long-suffering look tells the rest of the story. “Boys will be boys.”

“You’re the only lady cop in the precinct?”

“No, only on the SOCO team. I’m sure you can relate.”

Eponine chuckles as she waits for Karen to finish filling out the forms. “So how long have you been in the SOCO division?”

“Three years,” Karen replies with a grin. “It’s better than working a desk or traffic beat. A lot of the girls get stuck with that since it’s supposed to be safer.”

The thought makes Eponine cringe.  “To be honest, I get a lot of your male colleagues here and that seems to throw the safety argument out the window.” 

 “I keep saying that if we girls were involved in more assignments we’d get things done faster thanks to multitasking,” Karen says with a shrug. “That’s just my opinion; I know it’s not true for a lot of people on the force.”  

“It’s sensible though,” Eponine concurs. “So when are you next meeting up with Bahorel?”

“Remy and I---“” Karen begins before trailing off awkwardly. “You do know?”

“You know guys can’t really keep _that_ sort of secret.” Eponine jokes. ‘ _Though perhaps there’s more if she’s still sticking around even after her team’s part in the case is over,’_ she wonders even as she watches Karen go off to talk to Navet. At length she sees Combeferre walking up, clearly on the verge of laughter. “What do you think?” she asks in an undertone.

“They have a long way to go,” Combeferre says. “At least they’re starting something.”

“Do you like her?”

“Enough to meet her again.”

“You’re an even worse critic than Auguste can be,” Eponine points out. “That’s the teacher in you.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes before he flips through the charts Navet has left on the table. “Who’s the next consultant on deck, you or me?” 

“Me.” Eponine stretches as she checks her watch. “While nothing is happening, I’d better get some lunch. I’ve already as good as jinxed the ER by being here.”

“We’re never going to escape being part of the Toxic Quartet,” Combeferre groans.

“What would you rather do, give up your consultancy?” Eponine gets to her feet and laughs at Combeferre’s discomfited look. “See you guys later.”

It’s just past eleven in the morning, a little early to be getting lunch, but Eponine figures she may as well avoid the noontime rush. ‘ _The better to actually be able to sit down to eat,’_ she tells herself as she finds a seat at the counter of the _Bienvenido_ _Trattoria_ , a small place located three blocks away from the hospital. It’s one place in town where she knows she can get reasonably priced and edible pasta, which is always a good change from the noodles always being served up at the cafeteria.

Halfway through her meal, she gets up to fetch herself a drink of water from the self-service station. When she returns to the counter, she finds another person already sitting there at the seat next to hers. “You’re looking well, Doctor,” Claude Enjolras says coolly as he sets down his phone.

Eponine’s grip tightens on her glass. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s no way to greet your father-in-law. Why don’t you sit down?” Claude replies. His words would be almost convivial but his expression is anything but welcoming. “You should not be walking around so much in your condition.”

“I do feel fine, thank you for your concern,” Eponine said. She moves to grab her plate and find another seat but to her dismay the entire _trattoria_ is occupied. “Are you getting anything?” she asks him tersely.

Claude waves her question away. “So you’re still working at Saint-Michel?”

“Yes. I have a consultancy there,” she replies tersely.

“I had thought you would seek other opportunities, now that you have completed your residency,” he says intently.

“I prefer practicing in this city. Consultancies don’t come easily and I’m intent on doing well in mine,” Eponine answers.

 “Are those your only plans?” Claude asks. “What about other training opportunities? You are still relatively new to your field.”

“I’ll get to it soon enough, just not immediately. My training won’t necessarily be only for trauma surgery either,” she says, all the while willing herself to keep a level tone.

“Now don’t be so acerbic, my dear. I do mean well,” Claude says. He brings out a calling card and his check book. “I am sure that a girl of your talents has better things to do than to stitch up rats and hooligans. I have contacts in Berlin, Switzerland, and even in London. They can help you get fellowships with the medical societies there. I can even help you with the initial expenses.”

She gapes at him, wondering now about the impetus for this offer. “I don’t need that. I can get good recommendations on my own merit.”

Claude scoffs. “I’d take this chance if I were you.”  He slides the check book across the counter to her “If it’s not trauma surgery you want, then you only have to name the field. I can help you there, to go anywhere in the world.”

 “You have not mentioned Auguste in this discussion,” Eponine points out. “This concerns him too.”

“It’s none of his business. He’s busy with his law practice after all, isn’t he?” Claude insists. “I am only trying to give you a good opportunity---“

“For as long as it will get me away from him,” Eponine cuts him off. “Is that what you want?”

“What I want for him is none of your business,” Claude snaps more coldly. “Though that never seemed to matter to you. You may have married him, but you will get nothing from it.” He pauses to survey her scornfully. “You don’t look too far along, thankfully. You had better find someone to get rid of it if you’re going to take my offer.”  

Eponine shoves the check book back at Claude. “I think we’re done here.”

“You stupid, insolent girl!” Claude slams his hand on the tabletop. “I offer you a chance to better yourself and you throw it right in my face?”

“If it’s to better myself on your terms, then I don’t want it,” Eponine says slowly, but loudly for other people in the vicinity to listen in. “Leave me alone.”

“You will not tell me what to do!” Claude barks before backhanding her violently. It is enough to catch Eponine off-guard, leaving her unable to break her fall before her head collides with the edge of the countertop.


	13. Chapter 13

****

**Chapter 13: Capacity and Audacity**

It is a rare day for Enjolras when time seems to move at a leisurely pace or at least one slower than he’d like it to be. ‘ _We’re adrift till we find leads,’_ he muses with some measure of irritated impatience after listening to Eponine’s voicemail regarding Clara Gardner’s reticence. He grits his teeth when he sees that the wall clock next to his cubicle shows the time to be nearly twelve noon. Chances are that all his usual informants are out for lunch, thus making any inquiry within this hour short or next to useless.

As he sends emails to the Blakeneys and Andrew Ffoulkes to relay this news to them, his phone begins to ring shrilly with an incoming call. Enjolras raises an eyebrow when he sees who the call is from. “Hello Musichetta. This is unusual.”

“Enjolras, are you sitting down?” Musichetta asks. Her words are clear but there is a terseness in her tone. “I have pretty nasty news for you but you have to let me finish everything I’ve got to say before you jump in.”

“I could do that.” He can hear the commotion of an emergency room in the background, which only unsettles him further since it’s not where his friend usually works. “What is it?”

“Eponine is in the ER, and I mean she’s here as a patient. Apparently she went out for lunch, your dad was there and he pretty much shoved her out of her seat,” Musichetta begins. “She’s got a nasty wound on her head, but nothing else has come up so we’re still observing her and the baby. Combeferre, Joly, and I are with her now.”

‘ _This has to be some sick joke,’_ Enjolras thinks but he looks around and finds that the hands on the clock are still ticking, a sure sign he is wide awake and not caught in some nightmare. “May I talk to Eponine?”

 “She’s undergoing some tests, but I’ll tell her to call you back right away,” Musichetta replies. “You have to come here though, right away.”

“I definitely will. Tell her I’ll be there in a few minutes. Thank you,” Enjolras says quickly even as he grabs his briefcase and starts walking quickly to the door. There are a thousand and one questions racing through his mind, ranging from whether Eponine and the baby will be fine, all the way to whatever twisted reason has brought his father to this city. This last problem has him reaching for his phone to contact Ari, but her phone does not ring. ‘ _Has my father gotten to her too?’_ he wonders as he sends her a message informing her of this fact. The very idea is enough to make him feel sick, more so when he recalls Courfeyrac’s story from over the weekend. Nevertheless he has to banish this from his mind, if only to keep calm as he rushes to his car and floors the gas pedal en route out of the parking lot.  

Despite taking every possible shortcut to the neighbourhood of Saint Michel it still feels like an eternity for Enjolras till he finally catches sight of the familiar hospital facade. He parks the car in the first available space he finds and races into the emergency room, not even stopping to let the security guard at the door check his briefcase or ask him where he’s going. Almost immediately he catches sight of Navet racing past with an armful of charts. “Navet, where is Eponine?” he asks frantically.

The young doctor nearly drops his load. “She’s there---she just got back from her tests,” he says, pointing to a screened off cubicle. “Combeferre is there too.”

“Thanks, Navet,” Enjolras calls even as he walks quickly towards this particular area. Despite what Musichetta has already told him, he feels as if his stomach drops at the sight of Eponine sitting up on a cot, biting her lip while Combeferre carefully injects some anaesthetic around a gash that runs from her left temple all the way to her forehead.  Her hair is caked with blood and there are huge crimson stains all over the shoulders and neckline of her white shirt.  All the same she quickly glances towards the sound of him pulling the curtain back. “Auguste!” she whispers, sitting up straight.

“Eponine, don’t move,” Combeferre warns, only to end up sighing when he realizes who has just entered the cubicle. “It’s a shallow cut, but the problem with head wounds is that they tend to bleed profusely,” he explains calmly.

It’s all that Enjolras can do not to wince at this information but he takes Eponine’s hand to try to help her calm down. “What happened?” he asks as he pushes her hair back from her face.

Eponine swallows hard before taking a few deep breaths. “Your dad showed up during my lunch break with an offer he thought I couldn’t refuse,” she finally says.  She shakes her head as if trying to clear away the memory. “He said he’d help me get extra training and even pay for it, as long as I left you and got rid of our baby.”

For a moment Enjolras is silent, even as he can feel fury welling up in his veins and threatening to spill from his lips. “Then what did you say?”

“I told him to leave me alone, but I probably should have told him to go to hell instead,” Eponine replies. “That’s the least he deserves after he slapped me and I hit my head on the counter.”

“He just left her bleeding there on the floor, Enjolras. It was the restaurant owner who brought her here,” Combeferre informs his best friend.  “Now stay still. I need to stitch this up,” he tells Eponine.

“How many stitches will you put in?” she asks in a small voice.

“Five, maybe six. It could be worse.”

Eponine sighs as she leans back on the cot. “I hate this. You’d think I’d be used to this by now.”

“You’re not usually the one getting stitched up,” Enjolras reminds her. He clasps her shoulder both to reassure her and keep her still as Combeferre gets to work. He can’t bear to watch Combeferre actually suturing the wound, so he just focuses on looking at Eponine instead, checking if she is in more pain than she ought to be. Now and then she hisses and tries not to wince, and that’s when he has to hold her more tightly. “Where are Musichetta and Joly?” he asks as soon as Combeferre ties off and cuts the last stitch.  

“They are getting the initial results of the x-ray, but so far I think it looks good,” Combeferre says.

“Isn’t she supposed to avoid x-rays since she’s pregnant?” Enjolras asks.

“The risk is less for a head x-ray, and well there’s no faster way to make sure she didn’t break anything. I think your kid is doing the best out of all of this---better than you,” Combeferre says as he begins covering the stitches with gauze padding and tape.

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asks.

“You’re nearly shaking, Auguste,” Eponine whispers. “May I please borrow your stethoscope? I need to let him hear something,” she asks Combeferre.

Combeferre gapes at her in disbelief. “I could just get you a Doppler machine. That’s easier.”

Eponine shakes her head, eliciting a knowing sigh from Combeferre as he hands over his stethoscope. She presses the stethoscope’s bell to her abdomen and moves it around slowly, as if she is searching for something. After about a minute she smiles with relief before handing the earpiece to Enjolras. “Listen.”

Enjolras looks at her confusedly as he dons the earpiece, but in a moment he picks up on a rapid tapping, akin to the sound of horses in full gallop. “Is that the baby moving?”  

“That’s his or her heartbeat. I probably won’t be able to feel any kicking for a few more weeks yet,” Eponine replies, smiling widely with glee and relief.

“It’s really that fast?”

 “Yeah. I figure that’s about a hundred and forty beats per minute. It’s good.”

Enjolras listens in for a few moments longer, just to make sure he is hearing all of this properly, before he hands the stethoscope back to Combeferre. “That’s incredible. I didn’t know you could do that,” he remarks incredulously.   

“You can guess what I’ll be doing up until this kid is born,” Eponine laughs as she ruffles his hair. She waves as she sees Musichetta and Joly walking in, the latter holding an envelope from the radiology department. “Told you my head was perfectly sound.”

“You’re right about that. But since you did take a hard fall, you still need to be observed for a little longer---it’s for the baby this time,” Musichetta replies. She glances at her watch and at Enjolras. “You got here in record time. Very good.”

“I know I broke the city speed limit,” Enjolras mutters.  

“That would be a first for you,” Joly quips as he pulls up a seat for Musichetta. He looks more worriedly at Enjolras. “So are you going to haul your dad all the way to the courts for this?”

“A restraining order would be more straightforward,” Enjolras answers. ‘ _My mother will need one as well,’_ he realizes grimly even as he places another call to her phone. Much to his surprise she picks up after two rings. “Mom, did you get my message?” he asks quickly.

“I did. This is all just a sick joke, isn’t it?” Ari replies, her voice growing more frantic with each word. “Please tell me you’re just joking.”

“I wouldn’t ever joke about something like that.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “I haven’t spoken to him yet, but he managed to get to Eponine. She’s in the emergency room now.”

“Oh no. Oh my God. Is she okay? What about your baby?” Ari shrieks. 

“They’re not in danger. Hopefully they’ll be okay.”  

“Who told him I was here?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras replies. “Where are you now?”

“At your Aunt Madeline’s lakeside house. She invited me to see what she did to the place,” Ari takes a deep breath, clearly fighting to remain in control. “So should I stay put in the meantime?”

“Yes, that might be best,” Enjolras says. He’s not about to risk another injury on his watch, especially since he does not know anything as to his father’s present whereabouts. “Do you need me or someone to meet you someplace?”

“I’ll be fine. You need to stay with Eponine,” Ari insists. “Just keep me posted as to what Claude is doing. You take care of yourself too, dear.”

“I will. Stay safe.” Enjolras shuts his eyes for a moment when he hears the ‘click’ of the call ending. “My mother is staying with a family friend out of town, so she’s safe for now,” he tells Eponine and their friends. “No word from my father though.”

Combeferre shakes his head. “Naturally. He’s not going to start a confrontation unless he’s sure of winning it.”

“Fat chance,” Eponine mutters as she shifts on the cot. “Do I really have to stay here in the ER all afternoon? I know what to watch out for and it’s not like I’m having contractions or anything bad.”

“She’s got a point. This isn’t the best place to stay if one intends to keep a wound clean and a baby safe,” Joly offers.

“I guess you can go, as long as you head _straight home_ and take it easy,” Musichetta cautions. “I’m on call tonight, so you can reach me if you feel something is wrong.”

Eponine smiles gratefully. “You guys are awesome. What do you think, Combeferre?”

“From a trauma standpoint, my work is done,” Combeferre says, holding up his hands. He nods to Enjolras. “You have to help her out. I don’t want her staying on her feet for too long.”

“Will do. Thanks for everything,” Enjolras says as he claps Combeferre’s shoulder before letting his friend go off to finish writing up Eponine’s chart so she can be discharged from the emergency room. He nearly starts on seeing Eponine lie back on the cot and shut her eyes. “Eponine, how are you feeling?” 

She gives him a slight smile as she pats his hand. “It’s just been a crazy day. What time is it?”

“It’s not quite one in the afternoon.”

“Really? Feels almost like past four to me.”

Enjolras sneaks a kiss to her forehead before moving to sit next to her, since he feels his own adrenaline beginning to wear off. It’s only now that it’s sinking in how close he’s come to losing his partner and their child thanks to his father’s spite, and he can’t help but inch even closer to her thanks to this very thought. Having her risk her life in her line of work is one thing that he’s prepared for, but this incident has put everything in a whole new ball court.

Within half an hour Combeferre gives them the go-ahead to return home, as well as some antibiotics for Eponine’s injury.  Eponine is quiet but alert for most of the drive home, frantically sending text messages. “So much for plans today---I had consultations lined up even at the halfway house,” she gripes as she pockets her phone. “Now you’re stuck too, with me.”

“I wouldn’t call it being stuck if you’re involved,” Enjolras points out as he parks the car in their usual space in the basement parking lot. The truth is that he’s not sure he can focus on work for the rest of the day, especially while things are so uncertain. “It’s not as if we can make much headway yet in the case we’re both working on.”

“We have to give Clara time. She has to heal too,” she says as she unbuckles her seatbelt. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll get Chetta to help me there.”

“Is Chetta even going to allow you back on the floor just yet?”

“She will. I have my ways.”

Enjolras smirks knowingly as they head upstairs to their apartment. Once they are inside, Eponine unbuttons her stained shirt and tosses it to the floor before going off to the bathroom. He wordlessly follows her there, stopping when he sees her scrutinizing her reflection in the mirror. “I bet it looks hideous under the gauze,” she whispers.

“Stop that,” he chides as he pulls her into his arms and then plants a kiss on her cheek, just under the bandage. He places his palm on her midsection, wishing for a moment that they could feel some sort of movement there. “I don’t care how it looks, as long as you and our baby are safe.”  

Eponine squeezes his fingers before reaching over to turn on the faucet. “Seriously though, what was your father thinking? Did he really believe he could just throw money at me like that, just to get me out of your life?”

He heaves a deep sigh as he gets a washcloth to help her get all the dried blood out of her hair. “He’s bought loyalties before.”

“So what does he do when people actually need his help?”

“He does whatever works—at least whatever doesn’t give him enemies openly.”

Eponine snorts as she continues washing her hair. “What’s this, an ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine’ situation?”

“You could put it that way,” Enjolras says in a level tone, even as he tries not to smirk at the absurd mental image this brings to mind. “But this is going far, even for him.”

“He never hit you, or Ari. Something is going on,” she points out grimly as she begins scrubbing blood off her face and her neck.

“It still doesn’t excuse his actions,” he says adamantly as he holds back her wet hair away from her face. “Are you going to have to do this till your wound heals up?” he asks after a while when she turns off the water and straightens up.

“I can shower as usual tomorrow,” she says while she searches the medicine cabinet for a shower cap. She suddenly turns around and kisses him deeply, running her damp hands through his hair as he holds her close, just the way he’s wanted to all afternoon. “I can take it from here. Thank you,” she whispers against his lips.  

“Anytime” he promises as he lets go of her so she can continue to wash up. He then goes off to change into more comfortable clothes, and then fetches his laptop so he can check his email and catch up on some paperwork. ‘ _We really need to get a bigger place by the end of the year,’_ he realizes on seeing how their coffee table is piled high with books, papers, and other sundry. As it is he can’t imagine where they can squeeze in a bassinet or a crib in this apartment.

 Just as he opens his browser to begin his search, he hears urgent knocking on the door.  He gets up to open the door a crack, only to clench his fist when he is met with an icy blue gaze. “You’ve got a lot of nerve to visit now,” he says slowly.

“I’m not dropping in. I need to locate your mother. I know that you’ve been in contact with her,” Claude says brusquely.

“There’s a reason she’s not dealing with you,” Enjolras says as he steps out and shuts the door behind him. “I’m sure that it is related to the fact that my wife now has a head injury after you accosted her.”

A cruel smile spreads over Claude’s face. “What can I say? Pregnant women slip.”

Enjolras glares at him, feeling nothing but utter revulsion. “Is that all you have to say to it? You not only suggested that she leave, but you ask her to kill a baby, your own grandchild?”

“A slut of her calibre will attach herself to the best opportunity available to her. I am only facilitating her choices,” Claude sneers.

“I’m sure that leaving her in need of medical attention is an effective means of persuasion,” Enjolras retorts dryly as he takes a step forward and crosses his arms.  

 “She’s dragging you down, Auguste. Her, those friends of yours, everything.” The older man shakes his head as he gives his son a look of disgust. “Do you think you’re actually changing anything for the ilk you’re fighting for? You only continue to disappoint me.”      

“I am not looking for your approval.” Enjolras sees Claude’s lip twist dangerously but this only adds impetus for what he has to say. “Your disapproval is something I have learned to countenance over the years—except when it results in injustice, in whatever form. Then it will be only right that I oppose you.”

“You insolent---“Claude snarls as he tries to grab Enjolras’ arm but he suddenly pales as he looks towards the apartment. “You. I thought you were---“

“Hospitalized or something worse? I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Eponine chimes in from where she is now standing in the apartment doorway, holding up her phone to capture the scene before her.  She pockets the gadget before going over to shove him away from the door. “You should leave before this thing becomes viral.”

Claude is livid as he stares at her. “You stay out of this. I’m here to talk to my son.”

“Actually you dragged her into this, starting this lunchtime,” Enjolras says coldly. He steps forward and grabs Claude’s fist before he can strike again. “Now go before I have to call security to show you the way out of this building.”

“How dare you do this to your own father?” Claude roars.

“A good thing you remember the fact, but it’s too late for that,” Enjolras says as he lets go of Claude’s arm. “You will not come near _anyone_ in my family, or threaten them in any way. I will make sure of it.”

“You seriously cannot take me to court over this. It will be her word against mine,” Claude taunts him. “Who’s going to trust her?”

“Anyone who can see the evidence for themselves,” Eponine says as she discreetly grabs Enjolras’ arm. “We’re certainly not seeing you around though!”  

Enjolras doesn’t even wait for what his father has to say to this, but he takes the opportunity to drag Eponine into their apartment and shut the door. “Did you really get a video of that?” he asks breathlessly over the sound of Claude beginning to rage and swear in the hall.

Eponine nods gleefully. “We’re not responsible for what my siblings or our friends will do once they get wind of this.” She rolls her eyes on hearing a particularly vile expression. “Maybe we should call security before he does scare the neighbours.”

“No need to; there’s a good CCTV in the hall,” Enjolras points out. Much to his relief the imprecations have now died down into the sound of footsteps fading away. “You’re going to have to be careful with that footage though---it can cause some serious trouble if it does go viral,” he says.

“Trouble for him, you mean?”

“Yes and maybe some.”

She takes a deep breath as she steps forward and hugs him tightly. “You _finally_ told him exactly what he needed to hear, after all these years,” she says, smiling proudly at him. “You got him good there.”


	14. Chapter 14

****

**Chapter 14:**

It’s already eight in the evening by the time Combeferre signs out for the day at Saint-Michel Hospital, but this time instead of heading home or to the Revolution Cafe, he hurries down to the _Flying Saucer Gastropub_. “Johnson, party of two?” he asks the maître d at the door.

“She’s been here for a bit, at that table over there in the corner,” the head waiter replies, gesturing to her left.

Combeferre swallows guiltily before walking quickly to the table pointed out to him, and the woman seated there poring through the menu. “Sorry I’m late Flor,” he says by way of greeting before bending to give her a kiss.

Florence grins before pulling him down into the seat next to hers. “At least you made it. You look so tired, Daniel. What happened?”  

 “Had a busy emergency room,” Combeferre replies. He’ll elaborate on this fact later, perhaps after the small talk and a glass of wine. “You aren’t upset that I kept you waiting?”

“We did plan on this, but I could adjust. Besides what kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn’t try to help you deal with it?”

These words bring a relieved smile to Combeferre’s face. “I’m glad you’re here,” he admits. The word ‘girlfriend’ sounds childish and even mawkish around Florence since it does little to capture her brilliance and quiet strength. The truth is he’s not sure what word to give to her, and so he makes another silent guessing attempt at it for a few more seconds. “How was your day?” he asks when she hands him the menu.  

“Revisions to the syllabus---very delayed revisions, to be more accurate.” Florence lets out a long suffering sigh. “Some of the department chairs object to adding some excerpts from our local anthologies simply because they do not have so-called ‘literary merit’.”

“Aren’t you teaching a course on the literature of protest, and didn’t we just see through something like a revolution?”

“That’s precisely my point, Daniel. You’re the fifth person to say that.”

 “It will catch on soon,” he reassures her. He has perfect faith that this will happen, especially with the way their world has been turning lately. As he surveys the menu he sees her pull out her phone and key in a combination, most likely the wi-fi password for this restaurant. “The connection is fast. That’s unusual,” he comments as he checks the signal on his own gadget.

“Are you kidding? It’s great,” Florence says. She pauses as she scrolls through a page. “I’m finally getting a much bigger place. It’s one of the perks of tenure.”

“That’s great. You’ll have more room for your collection,” Combeferre concurs. Last time he checked, Florence’s newest music boxes were already piling up on her bedside table and bookshelves.  “What places are you looking at?”

She slides her phone over to him so he can get a look at an advertisement for a new condominium complex just a few blocks away from this gastropub. “It’s also closer to the hospital, so that’s good for you too,” she says. She waits for him to finish looking at the ad before she clears her throat. “I want you to like the place as well, or whatever else I’ll be looking into.”

Combeferre’s eyes find the ad again, which is for a single bedroom apartment, a bathroom and toilet, and in bold letters ‘storage space for two’. Yes, he can certainly take this hint, even if he can already feel his stomach twisting into knots.  “Are you sure about this? You could always move in with another colleague or friend.”

Florence gives him an exasperated look. “If that was the case, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” She takes a deep breath as she starts fiddling with her phone. “I really think it would be a good idea for us to get a place together. I thought you were also amenable to it.”

Combeferre has to take a sip of water just to get a few seconds to get his nerves together. ‘ _It’s everything you want, but are you ready for it?’_ he asks himself. He hasn’t had a roommate since moving out of a fraternity house after graduating from medical school, and he’s pretty sure that since then he’s developed a number of nasty habits apart from reading at odd hours. “I’m not used to living with someone anymore.”

“Nor am I, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“For how long will we co-sign a lease?”  

“We could start off with a year,” she offers with a tentative smile. “It’s somewhat flexible.”

‘ _In the sense that we would have to actually work things out for 365 days,’_ he realizes. It’s going to be a challenge, but he knows it’s about time he stopped evading these matters. “What happens after?”

“If my habits haven’t driven you away, then maybe another year, and maybe on different terms?” she blurts out. She turns red and grabs her glass of water. “I’m sorry, that sounded pushy.”

“It’s not pushy. It’s something we should be thinking about,” Combeferre jumps in. He sees her eyes go wide at these words and he now starts cursing himself for being so forward. ‘ _But honest,’_ he realizes. “People move in together to see if they can make things work on a daily basis. I think we stand a good chance of doing well,” he adds.

Florence puts down her drink. “So you want to do it? We’ll look at places, and then we’ll decide on something that suits both of us.”

He nods as he puts his hand on hers. “Fine then.” The words make it sound so simple, but the careful consideration they have just undertaken lends the appropriate weight to the matter. “As soon as I get a free day this summer, I’ll tell you.”

She smiles more happily before taking another sip of water. “You said you had a busy day. Tell me everything about it.”

Combeferre takes a deep breath and rubs his temples. He himself cannot believe what he has to recount. “Chetta, Joly and I had to treat Eponine in the ER. Uncle Claude---that’s Enjolras’ dad--- accosted her and he pushed her against a counter.”

Florence’s jaw drops. “Oh shit. Are she and the baby okay?”

“Thankfully, yes.” He tries not to wince at the recollection of his colleague covered in her own blood while being wheeled into the emergency room. “She had to get stitches for this gash on her head.”

 Florence hisses. “What did Enjolras do about it?’

“I’m not sure he’s seen his father yet, but I doubt it will be a civil discussion.”

“Discussion? If I were him, I wouldn’t be held responsible for any violence I do.”

“It would be returning an eye for an eye, and that only ends with everyone blind,” Combeferre points out. “What complicates this is that Uncle Claude has been hurting Aunt Ari too. That’s why she left their home and is hiding out in this city. No one’s gotten a chance to see her personally though.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Flor. I just don’t.”

Florence rests her chin on her hand. “You sound like it’s coming as a shock to you. When you and Enjolras were kids, did you notice anything like this? “

“That’s the thing. We were just kids. I used to think that it was simply because that was how some parents went about disciplining their families. My own parents told me not to ask or interfere. When I look back on it though, it doesn’t seem to be just that way anymore...” he trails off as his mind fills with memories of another town, miles away from this capital.  He can hear again every hurtful word thrown his best friend’s way, and now he sees how each barb slowly showed in that steely demeanour that Enjolras adopted for so many years. “Don’t get me wrong. No one ever got hit or hurt physically, not in that house. So it wasn’t as if anyone could call the child protective services.”

“Daniel, we didn’t have those growing up.”

“I know, but it wouldn’t have made a difference in this case.”

Florence is quiet for a moment before she leans in closer such that her face is almost touching his. “I gather you’re part of the reason that Enjolras isn’t much like his dad. I hope you understand how important this is, not just to him but for everyone.”

“I do,” he replies, willing himself to believe her words not just in that moment but all the way throughout dinner and even when they head to his tiny apartment to catch a showing of a documentary they have been waiting for all week. It is only while he is lying at Florence’s side later that night and watching her drift off to sleep that he hears that dreaded sound of his phone ringing. A frisson of panic shoots through his chest when he sees the name on the screen. “Enjolras? Is everything okay?”

“Everyone is fine except for my mother,” Enjolras replies in a level tone. “She just called, asking to get picked up from the lake house.”

“Why?” Combeferre asks, remembering his friend’s conversation earlier in the day. “Did your father try to contact her?”

“Apparently he has been calling her phone but naturally she’s not picking up. A few minutes ago he sent her a threatening message, so that is why she wants to bolt despite all reassurances,” his friend explains. “Of course Eponine will be coming along with me, but I am sure my mother would appreciate seeing more friendly faces.”

Combeferre grits his teeth, already imagining just how this situation is playing out. He glances towards Florence only to nearly drop the phone when he sees her already sitting up in bed. “Flor, it’s an emergency,” he whispers as he covers the mouthpiece.

Florence rubs her eyes. “It’s Enjolras, isn’t it?”

“How did you know?”

“Best friend privileges. Or in this case, practically-my-brother privileges.”

Combeferre nods. “It’s why I have to go and help out Aunt Ari---I mean his mom. She’s been having a rough time and she needs an intervention, right now.”

“I remember her,” Florence murmurs. She glances at Combeferre’s phone and holds out her hand. “I need a word with Enjolras first though.”

“What for?”

Florence doesn’t say anything at first till she gets her hands on the phone. “Hello Enjolras, it’s me, Florence.” She smiles smugly as she eyes Combeferre. “Yeah, I’m good. No, I don’t know _all_ the details, but I’m surprised you didn’t kill him, really. One condition though:  if I’m going to let Daniel out of bed, I need to come along with him.  Yes, you heard me right---that’s what you get for busting our evening. We’re at his place. See you both in a while.” She laughs as she presses the phone back in Combeferre’s palm. “That was easier than I thought it would be. He’s surprisingly reasonable about this.”

“You might have broken his brain a bit,” Combeferre says, already imagining his best friend’s discomfited expression from all this brash talk. “If they’re passing by for us they should be here in about fifteen minutes.”

Florence immediately slips out of bed and goes to where they have left their clothes on a chair. “Do you know exactly where we’re going?”

“The lake house of one of Aunt Ari’s friends from college. It’s an hour or at most an hour and a half away from here,” he replies. He sighs as he checks his watch and finds that it’s just before midnight; with any luck they will all be back in town in time for another day at work. After freshening up and donning a clean t-shirt and jeans, he fetches the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet as well as two clamps, a spare scalpel blade, and a flashlight. “You really don’t have to come with us. If we run into Uncle Claude, things may get ugly,” he warns his girlfriend when he sees her already fully dressed, but searching through his closet for a pair of flip flops to borrow in lieu of her boots

“What are you going to do then, leave me here worrying myself sick about you?” she asks. “That was not in this evening’s plan, period.”

Before Combeferre can protest he already hears a vehicle pulling up to the apartment building. In a matter of minutes he and Florence step outside to where Enjolras and Eponine are waiting in their car and avidly discussing the directions shown on the GPS on Enjolras’ phone. He knocks on the driver’s side window to get their attention. “It’s all the same at this hour whether we take the freeway or the riverside road,” he comments by way of greeting when Enjolras rolls down the window.

“Actually we’re trying to figure out a route with enough rest stops in case we do need them,” Enjolras explains as he unlocks the rear doors. He nods when he sees the items Combeferre has brought. “Good thinking there.”

Florence slides into the backseat and waves at Eponine. “You look pretty good. How are you feeling?”

“Nice enough. It’s going to take a lot more than a very pissed off father-in-law to keep me abed,” Eponine quips as she points to the bandage on her head and then adjusts the scrub top she’s clearly been sleeping in. “Just for that, you get this,” she adds as she searches through a large bag at her feet and hands over a still unopened pack of mint chocolate chip cookies.

“Shouldn’t you be watching your sugar since you’re pregnant?” Combeferre chides as he also slides in and buckles his seatbelt. “Even if you don’t have gestational diabetes, it’s still not good to get too close to hyperglycemia.”

“This is why we’re all getting food freebies till January,” Enjolras deadpans.

Eponine sticks out her tongue. “Just you wait till I start eating for two. You’re lucky I don’t get cravings, otherwise you’d start getting acquainted with every take-out place in this city.”  

“Because it’s that or you’re going to wreck the kitchenette,” Enjolras retorts.

“How is it that you’ve lived with Combeferre, Joly, Bahorel, Chetta, and even Grantaire, and you’ve never, ever thought of putting your microwave to creative use?”

“Because when people do ‘science in the microwave’, I’m the one who cleans it up.”

Combeferre gapes at his friends, knowing now that there is certainly a reason this is coming up. “Is this a story I want to know about?”

“Yeah, since this is what happens when you confine me to quarters---I get bored and try doing stuff like making cake in a mug,” Eponine admits, reaching over to squeeze Enjolras’ knee, perhaps as some form of apology. “Only this time I used Auguste’s extra large coffee tumbler---“

Florence muffles her laughter with her sleeve. “So do you still have a mug _and_ a microwave?”

“Mug, no. As for the microwave that still remains to be seen,” Enjolras replies, allowing himself a sideways glance at his partner before turning his attention back to the road. His hands tighten on the steering wheel for a moment. “We should be at our destination in just over an hour.”

Combeferre swallows hard and looks out the window, seeing now that they have reached the freeway. “What exactly did your father tell your mom?”

“He told her that he knows where she is. It’s not surprising since she is staying with an old friend,” Enjolras answers. He grits his teeth and shakes his head. “I thought that her being away would buy a little time, but that was a serious miscalculation. I should have known better after my father showed up at the apartment----“

“He did what?” Combeferre blurts out, only to be caught up short when Eponine passes her phone to him. The display is already showing a video; all he has to do is press the ‘’play’ button. The sound of Claude’s voice makes his blood run cold, even when he feels Florence pressing up closer to him. “This is bad,” he finally says.

“Restraining order territory,” Florence concurs. “For a moment I thought he was going to hit you for taking that clip.”

“I don’t think he’d be willing to risk a strike two,” Eponine points out.  “That would earn him more than a restraining order, which is the one thing he’s sure of getting at the moment.”

“A divorce too,” Florence chimes in.

Combeferre sees Enjolras shrug while Eponine merely sighs; they know as well as he does just how painfully loyal Ari can be. “That’s just not the way it works,” he mutters. ‘ _It’s part of why Uncle Claude has always felt so confident about getting his own way,’_ he thinks.

“This is 2015, not the 1830s or the Victorian era. Women shouldn’t have to stay in their marriages if their husband is being abusive,” Florence argues.

“A lot of women, or just for that matter people, stay because they think it’s perfectly normal to be treated this way,” Eponine says. She sighs as she leans back in her seat. “I should know.”

“Your own mother....” Combeferre trails off.

“I wasn’t thinking of her per se, but yes she’d count too,” Eponine pauses to reach down for a bottle of water. “She always used to say that one of the worst things a woman could do was to tear down her man or shame him by leaving.”

Florence stirs uncomfortably. “You knew though?”

“I figured out that it wasn’t normal to be hiding under the floorboards while my parents ‘did business’ above our heads,” Eponine remarks. “That was one of the more extreme and obvious things, but  stuff like that was always there, like the way my parents never had a good word to say to each other but would try to be sweet in public. Some people call it holding it together.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “A poor show at times.”

“Ari told me once that your father preferred that they would present a united front,” Eponine tells him. “Was that always the case?”

“Often. Mom usually deferred to him. She used to say that it was something about headship over the family,” Enjolras replies. His knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel again. “He got away with a lot of things then, especially with her.”

Combeferre feels sick at his friend’s words; now that he is older he can only imagine what other dynamics there might have been between Claude and Ari throughout these years.  ‘ _Again, we were kids and we didn’t know anything,’_ he reminds himself, but even at this moment the thought is holding less and less water. “You always knew....” he says at length.

“I was always told it was none of my business,” Enjolras finishes even as he steers the car towards an exit. “That’s over and done with, and this is a completely new situation.”

Eponine peers out the window. “There’s the lake,” she says, pointing to a shimmering line just past a long road.”I’ve never seen it from this angle.”  

“Haven’t you been here before?” Florence asks Enjolras.

“Not in a long time. Eponine and I didn’t pass by this town when we had our road trip after Christmas,” Enjolras replies as he rummages for some change to pay the toll fee. “It’s a big house in a cove. We can’t miss it.”

“The question is finding the right bend in the road,” Combeferre muses as they continue driving past tree-lined paths and gravel trails leading to different villas and rest houses. Apart from the occasional lorry or late night bus, there are no other vehicles venturing down this highway. This solitude is somewhat unnerving, such that Combeferre is relieved when Eponine puts a podcast on the music player, even if the recording in question happens to be a lecture on nanobots and their use in surgery. By this time Florence has taken a break from eating the cookies, and has taken to watching the moon’s progress through the cloudy sky. Enjolras is silent as well, but his calm is now that of a man relieved of a burden he’s been carrying for far too long.

After a long while they finally turn right onto a narrow winding path that cuts through an ominous looking grove of gnarled fig trees before opening out onto a clearing on the lakeshore. A small wooden dock adjoins a large cabin, where there are two women seated on the front porch. One of these ladies seems to start at the sight of the car but she settles when her companion puts a hand on her arm. The two women exchange a few words and a last hug before parting ways: one to the confines of the house and the other down the stairs leading away from the porch.

Enjolras quickly alights from the car, and the rest of the group follows suit. “Hello Mom---“he greets Ari before she walks more quickly towards him and enfolds him in a tight hug. “We’re going to get you someplace safe. He’s not going to get to you,” he manages to say.  

Ari nods furiously as she steps away and wipes her tear-streaked face. The sight of her without makeup and wearing an old t-shirt and slacks is surprising, if not outright disconcerting. “If only you knew how horrible the past few hours have been....” she mutters. Her eyes go wide when she catches sight of Eponine. “Oh dear, you poor thing. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

Eponine gives Ari a quizzical look. “Why are you apologizing for him?”

“Because he won’t do it himself,” Ari replies. She clasps Eponine’s arm as they begin walking back to the car. “You’re just over four months along, am I correct? It just gets better from then on.”

Combeferre can’t help but crack a smile as he waves to the older woman. “Hi Aunt Ari.”

“Daniel, what are you doing here?” Ari asks confusedly. She nods when she notices Florence. “Doctor Johnson, isn’t it?”

“I’m still a way from Doctor Johnson, PhD,” Florence says candidly. “Good thing you’re safe.”

Eponine glances at her watch. “Are you guys up for a very, very early breakfast? I spotted an interesting all-night diner near the freeway exit.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow knowingly. “Are you actually starting with cravings now?”

“No, it’s getting the munchies. There’s a difference,” Eponine quips.

“She’s right about that, Auguste. You’d better take care of her, let’s go look for this diner,” Ari says in a somewhat more chipper tone, however forced. 

‘ _She just needs to unwind,’_ Combeferre realizes, and this impression is confirmed all too well a quarter of an hour later when all five of them are crammed in a small booth in a garishly lit diner. Ari seems to breathe more easily as she leans back in her seat as they are waiting for their food. “Aunt Ari, what are you going to do?” Combeferre asks tentatively.

Ari sighs as she pulls her hair out of her eyes and laces her fingers together. “You kids can probably guess I’m getting a divorce. I had thought to resort to legal separation, but this changes everything,” she replies, pointing to Eponine’s injury. “It’s one thing to hurt me but to hurt either of you or my grandchild is another,” she says more seriously to Eponine and Enjolras.

“How long has this been going on?” Enjolras asks.

“Three months or so,” Ari replies. “We’ve had words with each other for some time, but he began getting brusquer only when the summer began. I thought it had been because of problems with work, but I realized after he burned me that it was inexcusable.”

Combeferre tries not to look at the still bandaged burn that Ari is hiding under her sleeve. “What happened there? You didn’t tell Courf about it.”

“Soldering iron,” Ari says. She swallows hard. “I really wish I was kidding.”

Enjolras grits his teeth and shakes his head. “You’ve got to get a restraining order.”

“Which is why I called you too. Is there any way we can work that out before morning?”Ari asks. Her phone beeps and her hands shake as she brings it out. “Now why is Claude’s assistant texting me about his files?” she whispers.

“He or she thinks you have them?” Florence asks.

“She’s asking for back-ups,” Ari says. “Apparently some new virus got to his computer....”

It is then that Combeferre notices Enjolras and Eponine exchanging knowing looks. “Now that, I didn’t expect from you two,” he says.

“Not us. I can’t even write code and Auguste is even worse at it,” Eponine explains. “The thing is that my brother got wind of this....”

Florence bursts out laughing. “Won’t he lose his engineer’s license over this?”

Eponine shakes her head. “He knows not to be traced, and even if we ask him about it he’s going to deny it flat.” She laughs at Ari’s discomfited expression. “I’m sorry, that’s just the way that Gav is. It’s his own lookout now at this point.”

Ari sighs. “Why was Claude stupid enough to mess with you kids? He knows that you never take these things lying down!”


	15. Chapter 15

****

**Chapter 15**

Eponine doesn’t quite recall falling asleep in her own bed, which only makes waking up alone that much more confusing. ‘ _Must have forgotten to set the alarm on my phone,’_ she realizes while taking in the sight of the bright mid-morning light streaming through the windows. She nearly starts on catching a flash of white in the corner of her eye, but when she brings up a hand to brush it away she feels the uncomfortable tug of adhesive against her skin. ‘ _Stupid stitches,’_ she can’t help thinking as she now recalls the events of the previous day up until the earliest hours of this morning. She brings her hands to the swell of her abdomen, thankful now for its mere presence. “I’m glad you’re hanging in there, baby. We’re going to be okay,” she says as she gently rubs the area under her navel. She knows it will only be a matter of weeks till she can start to feel the child moving in her womb, but all of a sudden the wait seems more intolerable than ever.

After a few minutes she slips out of the bedroom, taking care to keep a wide berth around the sofa in order not to disturb Ari, who is understandably still recovering from such a harrowing evening. She carefully climbs out the window and onto the fire escape where Enjolras is already busy typing up something on his laptop. She plants a kiss at the back of his left ear before sitting next to him. “Good morning,” she greets with a mischievous grin as he looks up from his work.

Enjolras returns her smile before he reaches out to touch her face, letting his thumb brush her cheek and then her chin. “How are you feeling today?”

“Wonderful.” She hugs him tightly and sighs with relief when she feels him relax considerably in her arms. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“I’ve had some coffee.” He raises an eyebrow as he meets her slightly disapproving look. “I lost track of time while dealing with all of this,” he says, gesturing to the laptop.

She cranes her neck to get a look at the computer screen and she sees now that he’s working on papers for the restraining orders. “I think it’s time you took a break,” she announces. “Brunch feels like a very good idea right now.”

“You might be interested to know that the microwave works again.”

“Oh? If you got it working....then when did you fix it, and if so, did you sleep _at all_?”

He doesn’t say anything for a while as he continues typing, but the way he finally lets out a ragged breath is an answer enough. “There was much to think about.”

She nods before squeezing his shoulders to encourage him. It’s not often that he lets on in this manner. “Things don’t have to be okay right away, Auguste.” She knows that he has years to work through and reframe, more than can be done in a single day. “At least you’re doing something.”

“He’s my father.” Enjolras stops typing and turns to look at her. “I literally have no other frame of reference when it comes to dealing with families.”

“It’s pretty funny that you’re saying that to _me_.”

“The point is that you know better. I’m not sure I do, and I do not know how to keep myself from simply acting on what I grew up with.”

Eponine swallows hard as it dawns on her what her partner is most afraid of in this moment. The questioning and worried look he gives her makes her feel a twinge in her chest; she knows that he has a dire point that may take more than simple argumentation to dispel. “It’s not going to happen. You’re too good a person for it,” she tells him as she takes both of his hands. “Besides, if you ever did anything to hurt me or our kid, you know I’d be the first person to hunt you down and make you suffer for it.”

“There’s that, thankfully,” he remarks wryly before he presses her right palm to his lips. “If you really want to, we could still press charges. You’d be within your rights to do so.”

She pauses to consider this idea, but as tempting as it is, it is not an option at the moment. “It’s going to end up in a ‘my word against his’ situation, and besides we have something more important to worry about,” she says as she moves his hand down to her midsection. “This one is a fighter, I’m sure of it.”

A smile finally tugs at Enjolras’ lips. “Speaking of which, when will we get to see if we’re going to have a boy or a girl?” 

“Next month,” she replies. “But you know, don’t consider it a sure deal. I’ve delivered babies who were said to be one gender on the ultrasound but literally emerged as the opposite.”

He smirks as he begins idly tracing circles on her waist. “This is why we have to get everything in green, or some other safe color.”

Somehow his words are enough to have her picturing a bright, airy room with pale green curtains, a bassinet with leaf details, and of course herself carrying a baby wrapped in a mint green blanket. It’s an idyll but one she now finds she wants in a way she never quite imagined before. “That’s not going to happen though in this apartment,” she says as she brushes her lips against his jaw.

Enjolras nods before motioning for her to take a look at the computer screen. “There are some ads here that may be of interest---“

“What’s going on---am I interrupting something?” Ari’s voice suddenly cuts in. They turn to see the older woman peering out of the window, looking bemused yet obviously red with embarrassment. “Should you two really be sitting out there? It’s drafty.”

“It’s summer,” Eponine replies. The truth is that she wants nothing better now than to simply stay there, basking in the sun with her partner at her side. ‘ _Even if we do have to get going after lunch at the very latest,’_ she thinks even as she now catches a glimpse of the time on Enjolras’ computer.

Enjolras clears his throat as he meets Ari’s awkward gaze. “Mom, I’ve got some colleagues who can help you out with the divorce, or any other options you’re considering. Do you want to meet with them today?” he asks in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Aren’t you busy with the restraining order and other things?”

“Those won’t take the whole day, and besides I can arrange a meeting.”

Ari bites her lip. “Three o’clock then. Will you two want breakfast or anything?”

“Lunch is on me this time, Ari!” Eponine insists. She just manages to keep a straight face till her mother-in-law ducks back into the apartment. “Now we really have to get a bigger place, maybe with a guest room. That’s proof for you,” she tells Enjolras.  

Enjolras chuckles before kissing her soundly on her lips. “You’re thinking quite forward.”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” she says smugly as she ruffles his hair. It’s difficult not to be a dreamer in some way around him, given that his optimism is so contagious. Before she can kiss him back she suddenly hears her phone ringing inside the apartment. “Damn it. This better be important.”

“It probably is, considering you’re the consultant on call today,” Enjolras points out.

“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” Eponine grouses as she climbs back indoors and races to get her phone on the bedside table. She sighs on seeing Musichetta’s name on the screen. “Chetta? What is it?” she asks.

“Hi Ponine. Just calling to check on you---and one thing too,” Musichetta greets over the sound of much conversation; clearly she is seated in the hospital cafeteria. “How’s everything?”

“Good. I mean, I even went on a road trip to pick up my mother-in-law last night,” Eponine replies.

“Yeah, I heard from Florence,” Musichetta says dryly. “Can you please come in some time after lunch? I finally got to talk to Clara.”

Eponine’s grip tightens on her phone. “What did she say?”

“A hell lot. You might want to bring someone from the law office too, just so that there’s one go at clarifying her statements,” the obstetrician explains in a low voice.

“I’ll talk to Auguste. Thanks!” Eponine says, needing to raise her voice just as the conversation in the cafeteria grows louder. The line goes dead a few moments later, but she knows better than to try to call back. ‘ _The best thing I can do is get moving,’_ she decides, remembering now that her friend has been on duty all night and is certainly extending her hours only for this errand. As she leaves the bedroom she notices Enjolras also climbing back into the living room. “What was that message about?”

“Jehan asking what happened yesterday. He heard the story, or some of it, from Grantaire, who of course heard from Joly, Chetta, and Bossuet,” Enjolras replies. He gestures to the phone in Eponine’s hand. “You have a new case?”

“No, but there’s a breakthrough,” Eponine says gleefully. . “Can you come with me after lunch? There’s a witness I know you want to talk to.’

Enjolras’ eyebrows shoot up. “This is the girl, Clara?”

Eponine nods. “We have to tread carefully.” She glances towards where Ari is also on the phone, and the way her mother-in-law’s brow furrows only makes her uneasy. “Unless you have to deal with the restraining orders first?”

 “I actually need to get the medico legal report from Combeferre first before facilitating that,” Enjolras explains. He looks to where Ari has just set down her own phone. “Is something wrong?”

“Some reporter asking for comment about your father---his company to be exact,” Ari says. “Do you two have friends working for business newsletters?”

Eponine takes a moment to think and shakes her head; none of their friends write anything in that line. “Why did you ask?”

“Because that wasn’t supposed to be public knowledge,” Ari says. “Guess the cat is out of the bag. He’s going bankrupt, which is why he’s acting out.”

“It’s no excuse, Ari,” Eponine insists. ‘ _If it were, then I’d exonerate half the people who put my patients in the hospital to begin with,’_ she can’t help thinking. “Is that really the case?”

“It’s right in his pride---excuse me you two,” Ari says before ducking out to take the call.

In the meantime Enjolras has gone over to his laptop and is now shaking his head. “Look at this,” he mutters as he points to a web gazette. One item there reads ‘ _Chagrins Domestiques? Corporate Magnate in Trouble on the Home Front’._ The title is accompanied by a photograph of Claude with an angry expression as he tries to shield his face from the camera. “That was what he was wearing yesterday.”

Eponine scoots over to take a look, and sure enough she finds herself looking at the very image of her assailant as she last saw him. “Is he being watched?”

Enjolras nods. “Maybe. Whoever this is, I think he or she may have a bigger axe to grind than we do.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: From the Mouths of Babes**

With summer drawing quickly to a close, Cosette has to see to getting Elodie ready to return to her classes. “While we’re here I also want you to pick out one other thing you like that can help you with your lessons,” Cosette tells her daughter as they are picking up some textbooks and school supplies at the bookshop two blocks from the school premises. The place is also crowded with parents and their children just as engrossed in back to school shopping, making it a little more difficult for Cosette to manoeuvre her shopping cart in the narrow aisles.  “Elodie, where are you going?” she calls when the girl ducks into the aisle of language books.

“Looking for a sign language book,” Elodie says, wobbling a little as she stands on tiptoes to get a better look at the selections on the highest shelf.

“You’re not taking sign language at school.”

“I want to learn to talk more to Cousin Darren.”

Cosette smiles as she goes over to Elodie and steadies her with a hand on her shoulder. “You’re such a sweet girl, always,” she says as she puts a sign language guidebook in the cart. It never ceases to amaze her to see how Elodie has developed such a fierce protectiveness towards the other children in their so-called extended family. ‘ _Perhaps because she’s the oldest but not all eldest children act that way_ ,’ she muses.  “I’ll get you that, but don’t you want something else for school too?” she offers.

Elodie pauses and shakes her head slowly. “You, Papa, Grandpa, and Grandma teach me a lot. I promise I’ll study harder, _Maman_.”

“I know you will. But I don’t want you to push yourself too hard,” Cosette points out as she smoothes out Elodie’s hair. She’s vowed not to become one of those mothers who inadvertently push their children to the brink all for the sake of a perfect school record and the envy of the neighbourhood. After all, her own parents did not have to pressure her to reach for any sort of ambition.

As she carefully backs the trolley out of the aisle she catches sight of another young mother waving to her. “Hello Mathilde,” Cosette greets politely, recognizing her now from the school’s parent-teacher association. “Also shopping for your boys?”

Mathilde lets out a dramatic sigh before tucking a blonde strand back into her updo. “It amazes me how many things children need just to sit in a classroom!” Her smile turns frosty when she sees Elodie. “I see you’ve brought her with you.”

Elodie waves shyly at her. “Good afternoon Mrs. Sorel.”

Mathilde merely nods before meeting Cosette’s eyes. “I’m sure it won’t be long till you and Doctor Pontmercy try for an actual child of your own,” she remarks.

“We already have one,” Cosette replies calmly as she slips an arm around Elodie’s shoulders. “She’s already a great kid.”

“I’m sure,” Mathilde says. She glances quickly at her phone. “I’m still not done with my errands. I’ll see you around Cosette.”

“Take care, Mathilde,” Cosette replies. Before she can push the cart towards the cashier she sees Elodie let out a long, deep sigh. “It’s fine, Elodie. You don’t have to worry about it.”

Elodie merely shrugs. “Maman, if you and Papa want to have a baby, it’s okay. That’s what grown ups do, right?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t always have to happen right away,” Cosette reasons.  “You’re a special, beautiful young lady and you’re one of the persons who always makes me happy.”

Elodie grins delightedly. “Am I old enough to take care of a little brother or sister?”

“Why, do you want one already?”

“Maybe when Cousin Alex gets bigger and Doc Eponine’s baby too. It’s tiring to have too many babies.”

Cosette laughs and kisses the top of Elodie’s head. “We all still have a long time to think about it.” For one thing she doesn’t plan on bringing another child into the world until she’s worked out some more things in her job and Marius has his neurology practice up and running. ‘ _Not till the end of this year at the very earliest,’_ she resolves as she and Elodie pay for their purchases and then head over to Saint-Michel, where they are supposed to meet Marius after work.  

Thanks to all the events of the previous year, Cosette and Elodie are already well known to most of the staff and long-standing patients at the hospital. A number of them wave or greet them cheerily and draw them into small talk such that it takes time for them to make their way through the lobby. All of a sudden Elodie straightens up and runs towards a figure entering a side office. “Doc Eponine!” 

Eponine stops in her tracks to pat the child’s head. “Elodie, what are you doing here?”

“Visiting,” Elodie says. She looks confusedly at Eponine and points to the gauze bandage on the doctor’s forehead. “Why are you hurt?”

“I fell down,” Eponine answers in a matter-of-fact tone. She laughs on seeing Cosette catching up to them. “Marius is still upstairs, making rounds with interns.”

“I’ll text him to meet us when he’s done there,” Cosette replies. Apart from the bandage on the side of her head and an ever so slightly anxious look in her eyes, Eponine appears to be in perfect health. “How have you been?”

 “Pretty good despite yesterday. That’s more than I can say for my mother-in-law.” Eponine frowns slightly at this. “She’s definitely getting a divorce. Auguste is helping her arrange that right now.”

Cosette winces, already imagining how difficult this must be for Enjolras. “How is he holding up?”

“As you can guess he has a lot on his plate because of this, even with me helping out. I actually could use a bit of de-stressing at the moment,” Eponine says as she lets them into the office. “Remember when the boys all crashed your house a few days ago? We finally got a lead on the case.”

“You mean your patient?” Cosette asks, recalling now the conversation involving the footage recovered on the CCTV cameras.

Eponine nods. “Chetta’s patient, actually, but her case was referred to me too.” She bites her lip as she sits down at her desk. “It’s horrible. Someone out there is luring all these young people---not just girls---telling them they’ll get jobs, and then selling them off or worse.”

Cosette crosses herself even as she glances at Elodie, who is busy studying a picture on the office wall. “How young?”

“Seventeen,” Eponine whispers. She swipes at her eyes. “I can’t imagine it....no wait, I could, since that was how old I was when I went to nursing school and met you and your Mom. That was a little scary.”

Cosette cracks a smile as images of those bright but crowded hallways at the Hospital Royale’s nursing school. “You were brave about it though.”

“I had to be; there was nowhere else to go for me but up. Much the same with you,” Eponine replies.

‘ _With my mother as our clinical instructor I had no other choice,’_ Cosette thinks, and it is clear to her that Eponine still remembers those everyday battles to never do a thing wrong. “You had red hair then.”

Eponine laughs gleefully. “Till the school’s rector caught me and made me do something about it.”  

“It’s what you did about it that was the shocking part,” Cosette points out. She’s never going to forget the sight of Eponine calmly sauntering into the classroom, dressed in that regulation white uniform of the nursing school but with a green bandana covering her newly shaved scalp. “It took you three, maybe four years for you to grow your hair back to where it is today.”

“I’m not dyeing it again anytime soon,” Eponine says as she adjusts her long ponytail before reaching for her phone, which has begun beeping. “Hello? Oh, Marguerite! Musichetta and I got to talk to Clara. I’ll pass on to you the names and what else she told us about the other kids who were rescued so you can also get to work. It’s just as bad as you imagined, or maybe even worse.” She hums with interest as she listens to whatever the lady on the other line has to say. “I’ll see you in a few minutes, here. Thanks.”

It takes Cosette a moment to place the name. “Marguerite is Percy Blakeney’s wife,” she remarks.

“And more,” Eponine glances at her watch. “She’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Cosette nods, knowing that soon she and Elodie will have to excuse themselves. “I’d like to meet her. Maybe you can invite her over once to my place. Your mother-in-law too.”

“We may as well ask my sister, Chetta, Flor, and even Karen along,” Eponine quips. “Karen---or Officer Hooper as she’s also known, is someone who Bahorel has been seeing.”

“Really now?” Cosette asks. This is something she’ll have to ask the men about later. “Sounds like a ladies’ day out.”

“We’ll make it happen,” Eponine promises.

Cosette grins before nodding to Elodie. “Come on, I’ll get you some ice cream now. Eponine has a meeting in a few minutes.”

Elodie sighs before looking quizzically at Eponine. “Can you fix Cousin Darren’s ears the way you fixed up my legs?”

“Oh baby, I’m not that kind of doctor. Besides he’s getting hearing aids already and those help,” Eponine tells her seriously.

“Not the same since he has to put them on and off, so Uncle R says,” Elodie sniffs. “Is it that bad?”

“It can get better,” Eponine says. “Now run along. It was good to see you.”

Cosette scoops up Elodie and brings her out of the office before she can ask any more questions. “They have an important meeting to talk about,” she explains. “It’s not for us to hear.”

“She would have told you. I’m too little,” Elodie pouts.

“No she wouldn’t. It’s something secret.”

“I don’t like secrets.”

Cosette is silent, unsure now how to explain the existence of such confidential matters to her child. ‘ _For one thing she already lives among more than she knows,’_ she thinks as she sets Elodie down on her feet. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Not if I have to be so worried all the time,” Elodie observes. “Everyone does, I don’t want to.”

Cosette sighs, knowing better than to contradict this, for the time being. 


	17. Chapter 17

****

**Chapter 17: Owning Up to It**

On the third morning that Bahorel wakes up to the sight of Karen’s golden hair all over his pillows, he finds himself wondering if something has suddenly gone wrong in his system. ‘ _You’ve just hit the third time and before you know it you’ll be so far gone,’_ he chides himself silently as he moves to lie on his back, taking care not to wake his bedmate. Yet who is he to deny himself his favourite sort of languor, or even just that pleasant feeling from being in such charming company?

A moment later he hears Karen yawn and groan softly. “What time is it already?”

“I’d know if I only had my watch,” Bahorel jokes as he holds up his bare wrists. He’s sure though that the gadget is somewhere in his room, perhaps in the same vicinity where he discarded his shirt and his socks. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Home. I have to shower,” Karen says with a grimace. “No offense, Remy, but your bathroom doesn’t exactly appear friendly to company.”

“It’s called a sanctum,” Bahorel points out as he throws an arm over Karen’s waist to keep her in bed. He laughs when she pouts; little does she know that this expression of hers is one of his favorites. “You only have to ask for the password.”

Karen whines as she tries to push his elbow off her midsection. “I have to go to work.  Don’t you also have a job too?”

“I don’t call it a job. Give me a stack of papers, and you can call _that_ a job.”

“Most other weapons specialists are lab rats. You’re the only one I know who goes out and about.”

He chuckles before rolling so that he is atop of her, gently but firmly pressing her form into the mattress. “What can I say? I’m versatile,” he says in her ear.

“You sneak,” she mutters, only to hiss and whine again when he aligns his hips with hers. She tugs on his hair to draw up his mouth to hers before he can leave any incriminating marks on her neck and shoulders. “Don’t do that.  People are going to ask.”

He looks at her confusedly. “What do you mean by people?”

“My squad. Your friends,” she says, gripping his chin to hold him in place. “Maybe your boss is perfectly understanding about this, but what about mine?”

“Enjolras isn’t my boss, he’s my buddy. We go a long way back,” Bahorel corrects her as he grabs her hands to hold them above her head. “As for the other part, Karen, you’re not an agent 24/7.”

“I am one of the few ladies in this city’s SOCO arm,” she says in a terse, breathless voice even as she draws up her legs to settle around his waist. “That comes with certain....liabilities.”

“Screw that,” he mutters before smashing his lips onto hers so hard, fully intent on kissing away this problem of hers, or at least the awareness of it. He feels her lips part eagerly under his, only a moment before he hears both their phones ringing from someplace in the room. “Karen, please tell me you’re not going to take that,” he whispers.

“It’s not going to kill you.” She bucks her hips against his, making his breath catch for a moment. “We’ll have more time for this tonight, Remy.”

“Whatever happened to caution?” he wonders aloud even as he finally lets her up so she can get out of bed. He is not sure how long they can keep coasting on this edge; either they will soon let this drop or fall into someplace comfortable. ‘ _What is that then?’_ he wonders as he gets up to retrieve his phone. He laughs when he sees the name on the screen. “How’s everything, St-Just?”

“Bahorel, I think your plan backfired,” Armand St-Just’s nervous voice replies. “I don’t know what the hell you told my colleagues on the business pages, but whatever it is, it’s gone too far. Why is Claude Enjolras threatening legal action against every single press outfit in this city for writing up about his business issues?”

“He can only do that if there’s a charge of libel, which I’m pretty sure there isn’t. Besides all I gave were a name and an idea to look into his stuff. I didn’t hand over any evidence,” Bahorel argues. “Besides it’s about time someone hauled him in for something.”

“I know, but all the trouble it’s causing----“

“St-Just, you’re journalists. If you’re not ruffling feathers, you’re not doing it right.”

The newsman grinds his teeth quite audibly. “Does Auguste know what you did?”

“He’ll figure it out,” Bahorel replies. Although he is confident in his own ability to cover his tracks, he does acknowledge the fact that his friend is just as good an investigator, and thus is likely to get to the bottom of the matter once he starts widening his own search.  “I’ll deal with him, so there’s no need for you guys to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

“I hope you know what you’ve unleashed. Every bit of Claude’s business is under scrutiny now, and no press statement is going to refute the evidence of bankruptcy and financial chicanery.” Armand clucks his tongue. “He’s as good as gone.”

 “Precisely the point of this lesson, St-Just,” Bahorel says. This is one thing he is not about to apologize for, and it is clear that Armand gets the message judging by the tone with which he ends the call. When he looks around he finds Karen already pulling on her blue long-sleeved t-shirt over her black slacks. “Work calls already?”

“Monthly report to the department chief,” She gets up to retrieve her purse from where it had been hastily tossed on the floor the night before. “If I’m coming back tonight, I don’t think I can stay over.”

Bahorel feels something twist in his gut as he takes in her words. “Is something wrong?”

“People are asking.” She drops her purse on his bed and crosses her arms. “I’m the one who has the walk of shame going on. It doesn’t apply to you.”

“Maybe I could be the one to come over,” he offers. “It’s no problem with me.”

Karen shakes her head. “That’s the thing. You have nothing to lose. You can get away with being with anyone, wherever you want. I don’t have that luxury, Remy.”

“It shouldn’t be anyone’s business if you want to do things,” Bahorel argues. “You’re not accountable to anyone, as far as your personal life is concerned.”

“Easy for you to say.” She looks at him for a long moment, as if trying to figure out if he is ready for what she may have to tell him. “I like you, really. You’re hilarious, you’re passionate, you’re brilliant, and I knew that even before the first time you had me in your bed. But it doesn’t change the fact that we’re still sleeping together while we’re supposed to be resolving all these cases.”

This time Bahorel doesn’t dare to say anything, knowing that each second now brings them closer to a knife’s edge. He can no longer picture her in his bed, but nor does he want to imagine her walking out the door. “This case, or rather cases, will end some time,” he finally says.

 “Words.” She shrugs and takes a deep breath as she picks up her purse. “I have to go, right now. I’ll try to call you later. Have a good day, Remy.”

“You too, Karen.”  He feels the urge to call to her and ask her to stay a little longer, but the time on his phone already tells him that he needs to begin his own day. Thankfully the shower is cold and it clears his mind only for a little while.

It doesn’t help that when he gets to the office he finds only Enjolras there, apparently viewing something online. His brow is furrowed in a way that Bahorel knows only too well.  The attorney looks up from his work and nods by way of greeting. “I need to have a word with you.”

“Knew you’d guess it, Chief,” Bahorel says as he crosses to his friend’s cubicle. Sure enough, the computer there shows a screenshot of the article detailing Claude’s business troubles. “How were you able to trace it?”

“The journalists also hang out where Grantaire does his art workshops. I only had to make a few calls,” Enjolras answers, moving away from the computer. He puts his hands on the desk and looks his friend in the face. “I appreciate the underlying sentiment. I want to know though what exactly you told them.”

“All I just said was that your father was worth looking into. I didn’t quote any figures. They did the rest of the investigating,” Bahorel replies candidly. “You’ve known for years that your dad doesn’t run a squeaky clean game even if everything is legit, and it’s only now he’s finally paying for it.”

“Publicly,” Enjolras points out sternly. He considers the article again and grits his teeth. “Naturally he intends to bring everyone up on libel charges, but that may not entirely be possible for him.”

“Only with those who fired too wide,” Bahorel quips. “Thankfully there aren’t many, if at all.”

Enjolras nods slowly. “Are the writers aware of this?”

“It’s their own lookout.”

“What if it gets back to you?”

“I dare him to bite me.”

Enjolras smirks for a moment but he soon levels a serious look at his friend. “What is done is done. In these instances, prudence is the preferred course of action.”

“Got it, Chief.” All the same Bahorel is not about to apologize for this particular deed, especially when he sincerely believes that this has been long in coming. “I imagine you would want to do dish out far more than a restraining order though,” he remarks as he goes to his cubicle.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “If you’re referring to a full on litigation, well that would hardly be reformatory in this case. I prefer a more efficient use of fire.”

“Your call,” Bahorel says cockily as he gets back to his seat. He can feel the weight of his phone in his pocket and for a moment he thinks of simply asking Karen how she is. ‘ _You’ll get over it,’_ he tells himself as he begins looking through ballistics reports, but even so he can’t banish that feeling that he’s just fooling himself.

 


	18. Chapter 18

****

**Chapter 18: On Houses Being Built and Castles Crumbling**

There are bigger ironies in Jean Valjean’s life other than the fact that he, a man who has spent some part of his life in hiding, is the creator of one of the most efficient CCTV systems in the city. ‘ _It is only a blessing that keeps me here,’_ he tells himself one Saturday morning at home, while he’s surveying some footage retrieved from the cameras set up in various transit points as well as street crossings near certain places of dubious repute. It’s a nasty way of looking in, but it’s the closest anyone can get to watching out for any other youngsters in the same plight that Clara Gardner just escaped from.

Jean Valjean presses a few keys to zero in on some clips, in order to compare them to some sketches retrieved from several lengthy interviews with the girl. He hesitates as he surveys a face and tries to enhance the image in hopes of highlighting any sort of likeness, but a closer look disproves his theory. “It may have to come to her pointing out the perpetrators in a line-up,” he says softly, shaking his head with the gravity of this realization. He knows how terrible this necessary exercise can be, and he would do anything to spare this child the added reliving of her ordeal.

He hears a footstep at the door of his office and he motions towards the empty chair next to his. “I’ll take a few more moments, Fantine,” he says by way of greeting.

Fantine merely nods as she sets down a cup of ginger tea near Jean Valjean’s workspace. Her hands smell like crushed leaves and water, a sure sign that she’s been working on her bonsai again. “You can’t have eyes everywhere,” she chides him gently.

“That’s true, but if we have the means to mitigate some suffering...” he trails off before pushing his chair away from the computer. There is no need to speak of how this situation was almost akin to their path, but for one act of kindness on a now distant rainy night. He picks up the cup of ginger tea and takes a long sip, relishing its heat. It’s an acquired taste, but certainly better than the rainwater of his childhood years. “Where have Marius and the girls gone?”

“Marius is at work, Cosette and Elodie went shopping for new shoes,” Fantine replies. She hums as she seems to contemplate the footage that he is studying, but there is no telling what her eyes actually see. His hand finds its way to hers, allowing her to rest her palm in his for as long as she likes. Eventually she gives him a small smile before quietly getting up, making sure to run her hands through his white hair as she makes her way out of the room.

Eventually he finishes his tea and then wanders through their house until he finds Fantine at the dining table, looking through stacks of framed photographs, mostly of Cosette before she enrolled in high school. There is also a tablet on the table, which he knows also contains pictures of still more recent years.  “We should make some sort of photo collage or wall. It’s a shame to hide all of this,” she says, her tone one of nostalgia as well as pride.

“It would have to be a long one; we will be adding more to it,” Jean Valjean reminds her. Yet it is so strange for him to see that this is only a part of all the years given to him, a sort of second wind if he dares to use that phrase. He has never been one to trust too much in visions painted on blank walls, but who is he to judge if it’s Fantine’s own hopes coming to life?

He lets Fantine look through the photos a few minutes longer while he surveys some news stories on his own phone. Not surprisingly his news feed soon shows yet another article relating to the ongoing investigation of Claude Enjolras’ financial collapse. It has been more than a week since the first story broke and the coverage only continues to get more lurid, detailing now the man’s ongoing divorce as well as accusations of battery and imprudent spending, among other high crimes.

Fantine’s eyes darken with displeasure as she sees what her husband is reading. “I had thought at first that the source had been from within the family, but I am glad that it wasn’t so,” she says.

Jean Valjean’s eyes widen with surprise. “Why, who were you suspecting?”

 “Either Auguste or Eponine, but then I realized they wouldn’t have that much access to his financial statements,” Fantine confesses sheepishly. “I believe it’s a business rival.”

He shakes his head. “Those are unfortunate tactics.”

“I wish everyone had your sense of ethics, Jean.”

Jean Valjean smiles wryly, knowing better than to protest. He has been doing his best to be good for her and their family, and somehow they believe he is doing more than well in that department. “God help him then,” he finally says as he pockets his phone. “I’m going to the store for some supplies. Is there anything you want to get?”

“I’ll go with you. We have to start Christmas shopping,” Fantine says. “It’s only the middle of summer, but the time will go by fast, believe me.”

“There are not many Christmas gifts we can get at a summer clearance sale, unless we look elsewhere besides the mall,” Jean Valjean points out.

“Then let’s do that. There are other occasions coming up anyway.”

“Marius’ birthday is in two months, Elodie’s birthday is before the holidays.”

“Those and we may as well get some small things for their friends as well as everyone at the foundation,” Fantine prattles on. “By the way I intend to throw a baby shower for Eponine. It’s only to help things along since I am sure she will not have time get everything ready before she is due.”

This time Jean Valjean laughs. “She usually has everything planned out fairly well.”

“We’ve known that girl since she was seventeen and quite...outspoken at the nursing school. She’s like family,” Fantine says adamantly. “I can’t help looking out for her, Jean. She went for so long without a real home.”

“She’s always been a fighter, and she’s doing better now,” Jean Valjean assures her. Perhaps it won’t do much to assuage Fantine’s worry, but there is a chance it could lessen some of the effects.

His reverie is interrupted by a beep coming from his computer. “We might have a hit,” he mutters as he hurries back to his workroom, where he has left his data analysis running. It takes him only a few moments to verify the matched images on the screen, and in no time at all he passes the data on to the police as well as to Enjolras and Percy. “I am sorry, we have no time to lose on this case,” he apologizes to Fantine when he returns to the dining room.

“I had thought that after that uprising last year, things would get easier,” Fantine says worriedly. “All we do is run into trouble.”

“All we do is endure and work,” Jean Valjean insists. “No effort goes to waste.”

“You are too good.” Fantine stands up primly and smoothes down her long skirt. “What was that you were saying about going to the store again?”

Jean Valjean smiles, getting her point immediately. This is why he loses no time in freshening up and looking for his car keys so he and Fantine can drive first to the grocer for some household necessities, then on to Avenue 54. The day market holds fewer of the more clandestine attractions of its nocturnal counterpart, but the wares here are just as varied and perhaps more fitting for a home. Jean Valjean finds that there is an untold delight in watching Fantine walking among rows of tall potted herbs or running her long, scarred fingers over bolts of fine silk and strings of smooth glass beads. In the sunlight she could almost pass for a Madonna, or at least someone in an equal state of grace. 

Suddenly a yell followed by a crash comes from the general direction of one of the nearby restaurants. All eyes are now on a man who has somehow landed in a pool of whiskey and condiments, and is screaming invectives at a waiter drenching him using a spray bottle. It is clear from his greasy hair and unshaven visage that this is a fellow on the road of several days of self-neglect. ‘ _Considering what he’s endured over the past few days, this isn’t surprising,’_ Jean Valjean realizes even as he takes a step forward. “Please stay back! We’ll get him out of here,” he says as he waves off the growing crowd that now includes hecklers taking photos and videos of the incident.

“Are you family?” the manager of the nearby restaurant asks cautiously.

“No, but I know the family,” Jean Valjean says. He has to keep a straight face at the reek of vomit and alcohol that seems to be coming off in waves from Claude’s hair and clothes. “Mr. Enjolras, can you hear me? Are you okay?” he asks as he taps the man’s shoulders.

Claude groans and gives him a bleary look. “Who the hell are you?”

“A friend.” Jean Valjean replies as he begins to check him over for any readily apparent injuries. ‘ _Hopefully all he needs is a place to clean up and sober up,’_ he decides silently.

“What’s this now, playing doctor? What are you going to poke at next?” Claude snarls.

Fantine shakes her head. “Jean, we have to tell Auguste,” she says in an undertone. “He’s the only one who can come and get him.”

Claude looks quickly in her direction. “How do you know my son?” he asks sharply. “Are you two among his good for nothing radical friends? I don’t want anything to do with your sort of ilk, woman.”

Jean Valjean looks to the restaurant owner, who is watching this scene with a scornful look. “May we please at least get him cleaned up out back? We can’t move him like this.”

The restaurant owner purses his lips and then nods after a long moment. “As long as you keep an eye on him. He’s disturbed enough of my customers as it is!”

“We’ll take care of him,” Jean Valjean promises again as he and Fantine take hold of both of Claude’s arms so they can half drag him indoors and into the restaurant’s washroom. He soaks a handkerchief in order to wipe some of the whiskey and grime off Claude’s face, only to cluck his tongue on seeing how pallid the man is under the dirt.  ‘ _When was the last time he slept properly?’_ he wonders worriedly as he opens the bathroom’s one window to allow them some much needed air.

In the meantime Fantine stands outside the bathroom, talking on her phone. After a while she opens the door and sighs deeply as she looks at Jean Valjean. “I managed to get Auguste on the phone. He’ll contact his father’s former EA to help figure out what to do next, but he’ll meet up with us at home, as soon as he can.”

“That’s good,” Jean Valjean says. He cannot think of anywhere else to bring Claude where he can recover his wits as well as his dignity. He takes one look at the man, only to find him already snoring on the floor. ‘ _This leaves little choice in the matter,’_ he decides as he hoists Claude over his shoulder to carry him out of the restaurant. He manages to keep a straight face when he is met by cheers and jeers from the other restaurant-goers. Not surprisingly Fantine is also quiet, but she does glance at him now and then to make sure he won’t collapse under Claude’s unyielding weight. They have both endured far worse indignities after all.

By the time they arrive back at the house, Claude is beginning to regain consciousness, and it takes far less effort this time to get him through the front door and onto the couch. For a long while he says nothing but eventually he starts appearing rather less bleary. “Not bad for a philanthropist,” he sniffs as he takes in the sight of the cosily furnished living room.

“What you need is a proper drink---meaning water,” Fantine says as she sets down a pitcher and a glass in front of him. “And some food.”

Claude reluctantly takes a sip of water. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“We’re here to help,” Jean Valjean reminds him.

 “After everything I did for everyone---years of my hard work down the drain, and for what?” Claude says, nearly spitting water everywhere. “People’s idea of how they ought to run _my_ business, saying it’s good practice. I’ll show them---“

“Mr. Enjolras, please calm down,” Fantine begs. “You just had a bit too much to drink----“

“I’ll damned well decide when I’ve had enough, bitch,” Claude snaps.

Jean Valjean does not wait for Fantine to say anything; the sight of her going pale is enough. He fills up Claude’s glass and puts it in front of him. “Drink more. It will do you good,” he says firmly.

“You on your high horse,” Claude mutters. He turns at the sound of a single knock on the door. “What’s this, my prodigal son?”

‘ _He’s arrived a little too soon,’_ Jean Valjean realizes, but even so he knows he has no choice but to let Enjolras into the living room. “I am sorry for the inconvenience, but we could hardly leave him in this state, in public,” he says to the younger man, noting now the fact that he is clearly dressed as if for an important meeting.  

“You did the right thing. I have to be the one to deal with him,” Enjolras says resolutely as he sets down his briefcase and walks over to the couch so that he is standing in front of Claude. His expression is unreadable as he regards his parent for a few moments. “Father, what have you been doing?”

Claude’s head snaps up. “Dealing with the mess you made for me, you insolent brat! I’ve got nothing left and you’ve come here to gloat!”

“That is not my doing. You always said that your business was never my business,” Enjolras answers. He pauses as his father’s eyes go wide, clearly from shock and recollection. “I booked a ticket for your flight home, which leaves tonight.”  

“Where I am supposed to wait till your mother’s lawyer serves me the divorce papers, you were about to say,” Claude retorts. “You always thought you were so smug, with those so-called principles of yours. You were never good for anything but to defy me. I should have left you to smother in your crib. ”

Enjolras pales at these words, but he does not avert his unyielding gaze. “Well then, now we talk.” He looks to Jean Valjean and Fantine. “I would rather that you aren’t party to this,” he says seriously.

“Jean, I’ll be in the lanai,” Fantine tells her husband, and it is evident from her shaky tone that she wants him to follow.

Jean Valjean does so, and takes care to shut the door in order to ensure some added privacy, but that doesn’t do much to muffle the sounds of the ensuing argument. For a very long while he watches as Fantine tends to some of her newer bonsai projects. It’s only when her hands stop shaking that he can speak. “He’s right. This is not our fight,” he tells her.

“It’s not that. How can anyone be so _terrible_ to their own child?” Fantine whispers. “It’s as if he never wanted to be a father.”

‘ _The seed for that was planted long ago,’_ Jean Valjean realizes. It’s not for him though to say or guess when that might have been; he does not wish to know more about Claude’s life than he already does. If there is any part he will have in this situation, it’s to help deal with the fallout. That part becomes clear with the sound of the front door slamming so hard that the very walls seem to shake. Jean Valjean waits a moment before leaving the lanai, only to find Enjolras standing alone in the living room. “He left?”  

“I contacted a former colleague of his,” Enjolras replies as he gestures to where a blue car is pulling away from the curb. He lets out a ragged breath as he crosses his arms. “It is done.”

Jean Valjean regards Enjolras for a few moments, knowing that underneath this terrible calm is a man also adrift. “Are you doing anything else today?”

“Reviewing the tip you sent. You have my thanks for that,” Enjolras replies, now managing a ghost of a smile. “If there is anything you need, I would be glad to be of help.”

“That will take care of itself,” Jean Valjean reassures him. “In the meantime you are in need of rest. You cannot wear yourself out now.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Well, I’ll manage. Thank you once again for all your help.”

“You’re welcome. Stay well,” Jean Valjean says. _‘Poor, poor boy,’_ he can’t help thinking as he watches Enjolras leave the house. Somehow even the very air of this place seems ripped and gaping, and he is not sure now what can fill the void.


	19. Chapter 19

****

**Chapter 19: A Child Lost and Found**

Eponine knows better than to believe that any sort of languor will soon overtake her life after this storm; if ever, the days only speed up and seem to become more frenetic. ‘ _There is no time like lunch to see to personal business,’_ she tells herself as she unties the heavy operating room gown she has pulled over her scrubs. “I’ll leave closing him up to you guys,” she tells the first-year residents still standing around the operating room table. “If there are any problems, please call me. Don’t wait for rounds.”

“Aye, aye, Doc E,” the youngest of this group says, making a salute. “Do you have any more operations lined up for today?”

“That depends if someone decides to eat noodles while on duty,” Eponine quips as she removes her gloves and tosses them into a yellow-lined waste bin. It’s a hospital superstition passed down from one batch of trainees to another, but in the end it does little more than instil an irrational aversion to spaghetti and canned soup as dinner options. ‘ _Then they wonder why we’re always out of rice and bread at the cafeteria,’_ she muses as she leaves the OR complex in order to freshen up and then hurry downstairs to the obstetrics clinic for her check-up with Musichetta.

She finds Enjolras already in the now quiet waiting area, busily reading an article on his phone. Even though it has to be about 30 degrees outside, he still manages to look sharp in his long-sleeved shirt and tie, and the effect has Eponine turning a little red as she sits next to him. Yet she can see that his brow is furrowed and his jaw is set, and although this expression isn’t new at all to her, it’s one she’s seen him wear too often in the past two weeks or so. She sighs and nudges his shin with her shoe. “Have you had lunch yet?”

Enjolras nods distractedly before pocketing his phone. “I got you something,” he says, handing over a long, foil-wrapped sandwich as well as a bottle of water. “Musichetta still has another patient, but you’re next in line.”

“Right,” Eponine mumbles as she unwraps one end of the sandwich and takes a big bite. She can’t help but smile on tasting grilled chicken, beans, and cheesy pesto, one of her favourite combinations. As she’s eating she quietly watches Enjolras as he checks his watch and then begins looking through his briefcase for some paper. After a few minutes of this she nudges him again. “You’re not at work now.”  

“I have a hearing after this,” he replies more tersely than he would usually with her. “There are some things I should have gone over again last night.”

“Seriously? I don’t even remember you coming to bed,” she says. She rolls her eyes when he merely raises an eyebrow and gets back to his reading. She’s seen this stubbornness before, particularly in the days when he was proving that he was not incapacitated by the attempt on his life more than a year and a half ago.  ‘ _This time you don’t need this,’_ she wants to tell him, if only she could hold his attention long enough. The turmoil in his mind owing to their casework and the recent falling out with his father is not something her scalpel can fix.

It is just as well that Musichetta soon makes her appearance, chatting away with a patient as she hands over a slip for a subsequent appointment. She smiles when she catches sight of her friends. “Are you two ready?” she asks cheerily.

Eponine takes a huge gulp of water and grins. “Let’s do this.” The excitement and trepidation makes her feel as if her heart is crashing against her ribcage; it’s always this way whenever she has a check-up, but this time she knows her friend is going to do another sonogram.

Enjolras puts away his paperwork. “Aside from an ultrasound, will there be other tests?”

“That will be it, unless something is wrong---heaven forbid,” Musichetta replies as they enter the examination room. “Don’t worry yourself sick about that; it’s contagious. Joly would tell you so too.”

“There, you heard her,” Eponine chides as she lies down on the examination table and pulls up her scrub top. “Do I get to hold the tape measure?” she asks Musichetta.

“You remember the drill,” Musichetta quips as she tosses the retractable tape measure to Eponine, all the while keeping a grip on one end. She lines up the tape measure along Eponine’s abdomen and feels for a point just near her navel. “Eighteen centimetres. Just about as big as it should be at this point.”

Eponine feels Enjolras squeeze her other hand. “I keep telling you it’s going to be okay,” she reassures him as she cranes her neck so she can meet his eyes. “Stop fretting.”

“It’s just more reassuring to actually see what’s going on,” he points out, now actually smiling as he pulls a stray strand of hair away from her face. “He or she is going to get bigger and we get to watch some of that happening.”

“That’s the fun part,” Eponine says as she catches his hand, linking her pinkie around his as she lets Musichetta finish the rest of the physical examination. Even though she’s familiar with the steps thanks to her basic medical training, it all feels different now that she’s a mother-to-be. ‘ _This is the stuff they don’t always talk about in medical school,’_ she realizes as she watches Musichetta prepare the ultrasound machine.

“Here we go guys,” Musichetta says as she puts some gel on the ultrasound probe, which she places on Eponine’s stomach. She angles the probe a little bit till the fuzzy image on the monitor becomes clear. “There it is...and in mid somersault too!”

Eponine’s jaw drops as she finally sees the baby twisting and kicking.  She taps her stomach lightly and giggles when she sees the baby move in the general direction of her hand. “Wow. Did you see that?” she asks Enjolras, whose eyes are now wide with sheer amazement.

Enjolras nods as he moves to get a better look at the monitor. “Does the baby recognize voices yet?”

“Give the kid a few more weeks to actually respond. Have you felt the baby move yet?” Musichetta says, directing the last question to Eponine.

Eponine shakes her head. “I probably won’t for another two weeks or so, if I recall.”

“He or she might surprise you,” Musichetta replies as she continues to move the probe around and make some measurements. “Do you guys want to know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Yes please. We’re tired of using two pronouns all the time,” Eponine says. She looks more intently at the ultrasound monitor, wondering if she too can make a guess, but the baby is moving about too quickly for her to get a good look. “What do you think?”

Musichetta doesn’t say anything as she presses on Eponine’s stomach. She laughs after a while. “Brace yourselves you two. It’s a boy.”

The very words have Eponine swiping at her eyes thanks to the tears welling up, more so when she looks back at the monitor. ‘ _Soon he’s going to be in my arms, and he’s going to be the most beautiful baby ever,’_ she realizes. She turns to see Enjolras silently staring at the screen too, but only this time his smile has faded into a far more pensive expression. “Auguste, are you okay?” she asks.

He nods as he pats her hand. “I’m just thinking.”

“Don’t overdo it,” she points out. ‘ _Is he happy about this?’_ she can’t help but wonder as she watches him for a moment longer before she wipes off the gel from her stomach and sits up. Enjolras’ stoicism would not be unnerving if not for the disquiet of the past few weeks. ‘ _He’d better not be second-guessing this,’_ she thinks as she pulls down her top. “Chetta, is everything good?” she asks her friend.

“Excellent. I’ll just type up the official report and print the sonogram, so give me a few minutes. You guys can wait outside,” Musichetta says with a reassuring smile before going into the next room.

The ensuing silence is more than Eponine can take, especially now that she’s alone with Enjolras and he’s getting lost in his thoughts again. “What do you think?” she asks.

He gives her a sidelong glance. “What reaction were you expecting?”

“Something, anything,” she insists. “It’s as if you were mentally absent for a bit there.”

“Of course not,” he retorts. “What gave you that idea?”

“I just thought you’d be happy or at least appreciate that we got to see our kid,” she snaps. “I know you’ve been busy but I thought it would mean something to you if we could both be here instead of my just walking down alone when I’ve got a break from work.”

“It does mean something. I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” he replies quickly.

“Then why aren’t you saying anything?” she asks, nearly flinching at the pleading tone she can hear in her voice. Naturally she knows that he will not do something extreme such as jump up and down at this good news, but his being impassive in this moment is something she certainly did not expect. “We’re having a son, and you can’t keep shutting me or him out when you’re busy.”

“It’s not that. It was never about that,” Enjolras answers harshly. He checks his watch and grits his teeth. “I have to be at the hearing in a few minutes. We’ll talk later.”

Eponine shakes her head. “Just go.” There is no use continuing this discussion and spoiling the afternoon further. She walks out ahead of him and over to where Musichetta is still at work. “I will just get that result later. Thanks much,” she says.

Musichetta looks up from her computer with a worried light in her eyes. “Is everything alright?”

Eponine merely shrugs. “We’ll deal.” She pauses when she feels Enjolras touch her shoulder wordlessly on the way out the door. He may be distant today but he’s not completely lost, and it heartens her somewhat. “Are we still on for girls’ day in tomorrow?” she asks Musichetta.

Musichetta nods. “I need it. I love my boys, really, but sometimes I could do with less talk of papers and diseases,’ she says. “I’m sure you understand.”

“I got it. The diner tomorrow. No boys, no work, and no kids as much as possible,” Eponine concurs. This little break for sanity’s sake is not something she ever thought that she would need in her line of work, but it’s absolutely necessary for her, for her sister, as well as their friends. ‘ _If only to keep from drowning,’_ she thinks. “Thanks again for everything.”

“If you need to talk, I’m just down the hall,” Musichetta offers in a more chipper tone. “Or are you planning to go to the halfway house today?”

“That too,” Eponine says a little more easily. As trying as her work there can be, it usually buoys her spirits. Perhaps, she decides, it’s a sort of undoing of her own past, or at least making sense of it.

This thread of thought stays even as she’s sorting out papers and making phone calls in her office, just an hour before she has to be at the halfway house. As she puts down the receiver at the end of a rather trying discussion she hears a knock on the door. “Come in,” she calls.

Marguerite does not need to be asked twice before she sashays into the room, one arm around a pile of folders. “How are you doing?” she greets warmly. “You look gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” Eponine says. She wonders if it will still be as easy to take this sort of compliment in a month or two. “What are you doing here?”

“I have some new names for the watch list. I’m sure you’d like to take a look,” Marguerite says. “Some of these names were given by the kids we’ve already tracked and placed in homes and situations, while others were already tagged in other precincts.”

“Many new names, and none narrowed down,” Eponine muses as she pulls up a chair for her guest. She can only imagine how convoluted the bulletin board in the law office must look by now. “Can’t we close some of our leads?”

“Oh, if it were as easy as that!” Marguerite laughs, theatrically snapping her fingers. “They mostly know each other, and it’s just as well to keep our eyes on all of them.”

“How do you know when to stop?”

“When we’ve figured out who’s bringing all these kids in, then we can close the doors in the corridor.”

Eponine bites her lip as she looks at the two long lists before her. One list is that of people who’ve been smuggled past the guards on the ferries and roadways, another is a list of the agents responsible for this illicit entry. “Some are behind bars, others are standing trial, and the rest----“she asks as she points to a row of pictures of a group of armed men perched atop a lorry.

“Those are on the run,” Marguerite replies, the pout in her mouth thinning to a more rueful line. “Anyone who sees those men has to move quickly. They are in the business of snatching.”

Eponine shudders, already guessing what their interest must be. “Have you seen them yourself?”

“Not me. One of our friends, Tony Dewhurst, has. Percy had to bring him to a hospital after,” Marguerite explains. Her lips curl as she ponders the photo. “Yvonne hasn’t forgiven us for that yet,” she whispers.

“Who’s Yvonne?” Eponine asks.

“Tony’s wife. A brave girl---and I don’t blame her for being angry,” Marguerite replies as she pushes the photo away. “Men like that are ruthless.”

“Would you know?” Eponine asks pointedly. She can guess there is a reason that Marguerite, Percy, and their team are relentless in their work for these forgotten immigrants.

Marguerite smiles knowingly. “Armand and I first came to this city when we were children. I was thirteen, he was fourteen. Our parents sent us to safety---there was a problem with the local warlord---but it didn’t quite end that way,” she explains. “We were almost taken too, but this inspector---his name was Javert, showed up.”

“I know Javert,” Eponine remarks. She can think back on this inspector now without rancour, after the events of last year. “So he got you and Armand out?”

“Yes, and he sent for our parents. That was how they got to the city too,” Marguerite finishes. She smiles with a pained nostalgia. “Papa died when I graduated from high school, Mama a year after. Armand couldn’t bear living at our apartment, so we moved on campus.”

“Which was how you ended up neighbours with Musichetta and the guys,” Eponine finishes.

Marguerite’s laugh is melodious as she nods gleefully. “We were young. I was not even nineteen when I met, or actually tripped on Percy. I’d been dancing on stage for a play, he was in the audience.”

“Oh no.”

“The most awkward story. How did you meet Enjolras anyway?”

Eponine snorts. “I treated him when he got shot.”

“You and not Combeferre?” Marguerite asks.

“We had a lot of cases that day, and besides Combeferre personally asked me to take care of his friend,” Eponine explains. As harrowing as that afternoon had been, she cannot regret a second of it. “Best call he made that day, if you ask me.”

“I’m sure,” Marguerite says. “The files are for you. Percy and I have copies at home.” 

“Marguerite, wait,” Eponine blurts out as Marguerite gets to her feet. “Are you doing anything tomorrow? Cosette---that’s Mrs. Pontmercy, is inviting us for a get together at a riverside cafe—it’s not difficult to find. She told me to ask you since she’s not sure how to get in contact with you specifically.”

Marguerite smiles amusedly. “What’s this, a girls’ day out?”

“No work, no boys, and as much as possible no kids.”

“It sounds like a lark. I’ll be there.”

Eponine sends the details of the get-together over to Marguerite’s cell phone before bidding her friend goodbye for now. ‘ _Marguerite was lucky to still have a home at the end of all that trouble,’_ she can’t help thinking as she prepares the things she will need for her trip to the halfway house. All the same she can only wonder what horrors Marguerite has witnessed that have now prompted her to her own crusade. Perhaps Percy has seen some of these things too.

There’s no time for Eponine to dwell on this though while she’s at work in the halfway house. Apart from the usual chaos with the girls’ shenanigans versus Cecily and Mother Asuncion’s short tempers, there are some newcomers to the institution who are in dire need of wound care and cold medicine. It’s past eight in the evening by the time she can make her way home, and nearly ten when she steps into her quiet apartment. ‘ _Auguste’s meetings probably got extended,’_ she thinks even as she leaves him a voicemail just to let him know she’s made it home safely. After making a light dinner and leaving about half of it for Enjolras to eat whenever he gets home, she decides to call it a night a little earlier than usual. It’s been a long day after all.

She wakes to the familiar sensation of the mattress dipping on the other side of the bed, and soon she feels Enjolras’ arms around her as he pulls her close as he can even with the swell of her belly. One of his hands comes to rest on her midsection, but before she can touch his fingers she feels him take a deep breath, as if trying to collect his thoughts. “Hello son. It’s me, your Dad. I guess that your Mommy and I have to decide on a name for you very soon,” Enjolras says softly. “I don’t know if you really can hear me, but I think you can get the gist of this somehow.”

The very words have Eponine in stunned disbelief. She has never, ever imagined that Enjolras would actually try to talk to their unborn child, at least at this early point. ‘ _If anyone else saw him do this, it would be blackmail material,’_ she can’t help thinking a little mischievously, but all the same she lies very still just so she can hear what he has to say.

“I didn’t say it earlier today but I was really happy to see you---and honestly, I didn’t know what to do or say,” Enjolras continues. “You’re still so small, and it’s going to be my job to take care of you and protect you. It’s why I keep at my work, so you won’t have to grow up seeing all the terrible things your Mommy and I grew up with. You can say what you want, believe what you want to believe and you won’t get punished or taken to jail for that. You can always trust that both of us will come home to you safely, each night. I want you to have that, and so much more.”

He swallows hard before speaking again. “The truth is that I don’t know how to be a father. All I can promise is that I’ll never tell you the things I heard when I was a kid. I’ll never try to send you away because you’re getting into things or because I don’t agree with something.  I’ll never make you feel like you have to earn anything from me. I’ll never call you worthless, a mistake, or wish you weren’t my child. I know I’ll always be proud of you, and happy that you’re in this world. You’re one of the things in my life that’s worth _everything_ , and I promise I’ll let you know that.”

Eponine can no longer stop the hot tears in her eyes, or the sob that leaves her throat as she buries her face in his neck. She feels him start at the sudden motion but she hugs him tightly, willing this to be a shield enough for him from his memories. “We’ll do better, I promise,” she whispers.

Enjolras lets out a ragged breath before kissing the top of her head. “Did I wake you up?”

She shakes her head before pulling away just so she can turn on the bedside light. She runs her hand through his tousled curls and then leans in to give him a kiss. “You already love our son. That’s going to make a world of difference.”

A slight smile tugs at his lips as he begins playing with the ends of her hair. “Is that going to be enough?”

“Maybe. You’re not doing this alone.”

“I’m sorry about today. I can imagine it was frustrating.”

“It was awful of you, but I still understand.” She catches his hand and squeezes it tightly, by way of apology and forgiveness. “You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

“You sound so certain.”

“Only with you.”

Enjolras nods before returning her kiss. “Thank you.”  

Eponine smiles, now that she can see some calm returning to his countenance. “I know you said we’d talk, but it’s really late. Tomorrow then?”

“More like later. It’s past midnight,” he points out with a yawn. “For one thing, our son doesn’t have a name yet.”

She laughs as she tousles his hair. “Dream about it a little longer. We’ll talk about this over breakfast.”

“I think it will take more than one discussion to properly settle the matter,” he says as he holds back another yawn. “Good night, Eponine.”

“Good night Auguste.” She pulls him as close as she can and smiles at the feel of his heartbeat almost in time with hers. In the middle of this storm, it’s more than she can ask for.


	20. Chapter 20

****

**Chapter 20: Ladies and their Exploits**

Azelma’s biggest secret, except to her nearest and dearest, is that she sometimes cannot bring herself to make small talk. ‘ _Why is it that I can’t just chat up anyone if it’s not something like a parent-teacher conference?’_ she asks herself exasperatedly as she finishes braiding her long hair, if only to keep her neck cool on this hot summer day. She takes a deep breath as she checks her makeup and her pink dress once more in the rear view mirror, taking stock of everything that has changed in the past few months. “Is this how a mommy is supposed to look?” she wonders. The girlish yet drawn look to her face has all but disappeared, and she’s pretty sure that the new curves of her chest and hips are here to stay. It’s not what she’s used to, but it’s not such a bad thing after all.

A quick glance at her watch tells her it’s only eleven-thirty, just half an hour since she left little Alex in Courfeyrac’s care, just for the afternoon. The thought of her happy-go-lucky husband taking charge of their baby daughter worries her a little but she catches herself before she can start picturing all kinds of comic and hair-raising scenarios. ‘ _Alex is supposed to be the one getting separation anxiety, not you,’_ she chides herself as she gets out of the car and strolls across the piazza to a diner overlooking the river.

“Cosette Pontmercy, table for seven,” Azelma tells the maître, who immediately shows her to a table located on the diner’s terrace. Azelma hesitates on seeing an unfamiliar blonde woman already sitting there, picking daintily at a plate of toast squares surrounding small dishes of different kinds of dip. Instead of bringing out her phone to send a message to her sister or one of their other friends, she takes a deep breath and walks over to take a chair. “Hello. Are you also here to meet up with Cosette?” she asks tentatively.

The woman nearly drops the toast she is dipping into a dish of cheese. “She invited me.” For a moment she seems to be studying Azelma’s face. “You’re Eponine’s sister. Nice to meet you.”

“I go by Azelma.”

“Nice name. I’m Karen Hooper.”

‘ _Bahorel has good taste,’_ Azelma can’t help thinking as she shakes Karen’s hand. She has never been able to guess Bahorel’s type; in fact she and Courfeyrac have a joke that their friend probably has a revolving door into the bedroom. Karen is prim and polished, but there is something in her mien that is steely and does not suffer fools. “So have you been waiting long?” she asks.

“No. Your sister is already here; she just went to the washroom,” Karen replies, gesturing to a door near the side of the terrace. She pushes the plate of toast forward. “Eponine told me you teach at an elementary school. That sounds pretty tough.”

“Compared to being on the police force?” Azelma asks quizzically.

Karen grimaces at this query. “Evidence doesn’t talk back. Kids though....”

‘ _I wish people would stop talking about teaching kids as if it was riot control,’_ Azelma thinks, recognizing the tone in Karen’s voice. “They can be really sweet,” she points out.

“It takes a special kind of person to remember that every day,” Karen remarks. She nods to Eponine, who has just returned to the terrace. “Was there a long line at the restroom?”

“No, some of the cubicles were closed for cleaning,” Eponine replies as she sits down She smoothes down her loose fitting red dress and smiles at Azelma by way of greeting. “You’re here early, Zel.”

“It was that or I wouldn’t be able to get myself to leave the house. It’s the first time that Maurice is taking charge of Alex without me around,” Azelma admits. “I hope they’ll be okay.”

Eponine nods understandingly as she takes a piece of toast and dips it in a small dish of hummus. “If they are up to it, they should meet up with Marius, Jehan, Grantaire, Elodie, and Darren. They’re going to the park today.”

Azelma grins at the mental image of all these fathers on a day out with their children. ‘ _Ladies like the sight of that,’_ she notes even as she sees Karen begin to check her phone. “Is that Bahorel?”

Karen shrugs. “Work.” She stirs the cheese dip with another piece of toast. “Like I was telling you earlier, Remy is a great guy,” she says to Eponine. “If I’d met him at any other time and any other place, I could give him a shot.”

“So you admitted it,” Eponine says with a mischievous grin. “There’s nothing wrong if you see each other after this case wraps up.”

“I don’t know if we can drag out that long,” Karen replies. “I mean, did you?”

Eponine shrugs. “After I signed out of Auguste’s case and he was discharged from the hospital, it took him only a week till he asked me out in person. Since he wasn’t my patient anymore and we weren’t working on any cases together then, I took the chance.”

Azelma rolls her eyes at this prosaic retelling. “It took you two long enough.” She smirks as she catches Karen’s bemused smile. “You’d think that with all their arguments and just the way they’d look at each other, they’d at least be getting a room.”

 “I didn’t think of that right away,” Eponine says as she picks up another piece of bread. 

Karen simply nods at all of this brash talk. “So you two weren’t a casual sort of thing and then you decided to get serious?”

Eponine shakes her head. “It never seemed that way.”

“So you always knew he was worth it?”

“It wasn’t because he is worth it or because I am worth it. We decided that we wanted to make it work.”

Karen is silent for a few moments and then nods slowly. “I’ll talk to him. It’s about time.”

“How long have you two been going out?” Azelma asks.

“Less than three months,” Karen laughs sheepishly. “It’s not too soon to bring it up, isn’t it?”

“No. You don’t have time to waste,” Azelma replies firmly. “If Bahorel isn’t straight with you....well that would be a first.”

“Does he have plans...I mean actual plans beyond next week?” Karen enquires. “You understand what I mean, I hope?”

“Every word,” Azelma says, now toying with her own wedding ring. ‘ _The truth is that marrying Maurice was anything but a whim,’_ she muses. She has never regretted that seemingly impulsive courthouse wedding just about a year ago, or any moment that has happened since. It’s a happy train of thought that has her smiling to herself even as Cosette shows up a few minutes later with another woman in tow. “Hi Cosette, who’s your new friend?” Azelma greets, even as she surreptitiously surveys this red-headed stranger.

“Ladies, meet Marguerite St-Just,” Cosette says, letting Marguerite loop her arm around hers. She nods to Karen. “You’re Karen. My name is Cosette.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” Karen says. She looks intently at Marguerite. “I’ve met you before.”

Marguerite’s curious look brightens up with a smile of recognition. “The airport case, last year. You were investigating the crime scene, Officer Hooper.”

“What a small world,” Cosette laughs. “Who would have thought?”

“Most certainly not me. I just met you out on the piazza. I’d recognize you anywhere, because of those articles about your father’s foundation,” Marguerite observes. “How have your cases been since then?” she asks Karen.

“Some good, some trickier than they ought to be,” Karen says. “No promotion anytime soon.”

In the meantime Cosette clasps Eponine’s wrist. “How are you doing? I know you’ve had a lot to handle lately,” she whispers concernedly.

“Things are starting to get better.” Eponine sits up straighter. “Meaning that work is fine and my mother-in-law managed to find her own place so she doesn’t have to get a hotel room or stay with us.”

“So how is Enjolras doing?” Azelma asks.

“Good,” Eponine says with a more relieved smile.  “He’s kind of shocked though since we just found out we’re having a son.”

Azelma bursts out laughing just from imagining her brother-in-law chasing after a curly-haired little boy. “Did he want a little girl?”

“He was fine with either, but he’s really more nervous about parenting than I am,” Eponine explains. “I don’t think he’s going to be completely assured till he gets to hold the baby for the first time.”

“Indeed, that is very much how like Percy was when I was carrying our son,” Marguerite chimes in. “That dear man, when he saw little Percy for the first time, when he placed him in my arms....” Her vivacious smile grows tender with the memory. “That was the only time I ever saw him cry.”

Karen shakes her head incredulously. “I cannot imagine it.”

‘ _That’s what all men say,’_ Azelma thinks even as she signals to a server to bring over some glasses of water. By this time the restaurant is filling up owing to the lunch crowd as well as people crowding around the corner bar to seek refuge from the noontime heat. One of the people seated at the near end of the bar is a gangly, sandy-haired boy dressed in a clean button down shirt and jeans. He is listening to a clean shaven, sharply dressed man who appears to be in his forties. The boy’s right hand shakes as he picks up a glass and gulps down its contents, nodding at nearly every word his older companion says. It’s all too clear to Azelma what this child is drinking. “He doesn’t have an ID,” she whispers.  

Karen motions for Azelma to keep her voice down. By this time the voices at the bar become clearer. “It’s a simple job---three grand if you get this right,” the older man says. “All you need to do is be at the _Peninsula Inn_ , wearing the denim jacket. The gentleman there will take care of the rest.”

The boy nods shakily. “Is it safe?”

“Perfectly safe. I get kids like you all the time,” the man drawls as he settles an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “If you do well and this guy likes you, you’re made.”

Eponine, who is sitting nearest this pair, now sets down her glass of water. “You’re starting a little early. It’s not even noon,” she says, looking straight at the older gentleman. “Does this kid work for you?”

The man scowls at her. “What’s it to you, lady?”

“He doesn’t look well. I’m a doctor,” Eponine snaps as she gets to her feet. She walks up to the boy, who is resting his head on his elbows. “Hey, hey, are you okay?”

Karen clips something on her belt before also getting out of her seat. “Hello, where’s the bartender?” she calls. “Does this kid have ID?”

“The tab is on me,” the older man retorts. “It’s no problem.”

Karen shoots him a withering look. “How old is he?”

“Seventeen,” the kid murmurs. “Just last week.”

Azelma feels her gut twist at this information, even as she catches sight of Cosette signalling to the head waiter. In the meantime she quickly pours a glass of water and sets it down on the bar. “Ponine, I think he needs this,” she whispers to her sister.

Eponine nods as she helps the boy take a sip of water. “He needs help. Zel, have you got your car?”

The man steps between the boy and Eponine. “I’ve got it covered. He’s a friend; I’m taking care of him.”

“You need to call his parents,” Eponine argues. She chafes the boy’s wrists. “What’s your name? Where are your parents?”

The boy blinks blearily at her. “Macky. Haven’t seen my mum....”

“Eponine, he’s not from here,” Marguerite points out as she goes to help Eponine pull this boy away from the bar. “Where are you from?” she asks Macky.

Karen watches this quietly, lips pursed with disapproval. “Sir, I will need to see both your IDs,” she says in a slow, even tone to the gentleman. She shows the badge on her belt. “Please cooperate.”

As Azelma looks around the restaurant she can see now that there are several other men now approaching the bar. All of them are tall and burly, and two of them are carrying pistols. She sees Marguerite go pale at this sight. “What----“

“Move!” Marguerite hisses as she tries to help Macky walk faster.

Suddenly a shout comes from the bar, where Karen has evaded the other man’s attempt to grab her. The policewoman grapples with the man for a moment, but as soon as she pins him down she’s immediately cornered by one of the gunmen. Before Azelma can do anything she feels the cold metal of a pistol at the small of her back, forcing her to freeze. In the meantime Eponine breaks away from another assailant and rushes to pull the fire alarm. Outraged shrieks and yells sound out over the din of the alarm ringing and the sprinklers drenching all the diners in the premises, catching most of the would-be-kidnappers off guard, including the gunman at Azelma’s back. The would-be kidnapper who is still standing over Karen glares venomously at her and then to where Marguerite and Cosette are trying to help Macky out the door. It’s only a second but it’s enough for Karen to kick out, taking the man’s legs out from under him and sending him to the floor.

“You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer,” Karen snarls as she pins down her assailant. She is breathing hard as she looks around. “Is everyone okay?”

“Not this one. He’s still shaky,” Cosette calls from where she and Marguerite are now easing Macky into a chair.

“What on earth happened?” Musichetta calls from where she and Florence have just arrived at the diner. The obstetrician’s jaw drops as she takes in the sight of the Thenardier sisters and Karen with their assailant, as well as Cosette and Marguerite with Macky. “Do I want to know?”

“Do you want to complicate your life?” Marguerite asks.  She pats Macky’s shoulder, as if trying to assure herself that he is still there. “Did you see those men?”

Florence nods quickly. “I got a picture of their license plate.”

“Good.” Marguerite lets out a relieved sigh as she looks to where Karen is now calling for reinforcements on her phone. “I’ve been wondering for weeks what they’ve been doing.”

‘ _Who are they?’_ Azelma wonders worriedly as she glances at Marguerite. “Are you a detective too?”

“I do the part at times,” Marguerite replies, stepping aside so that Eponine and Musichetta can start checking on Macky. She motions for Azelma to come close.  “There are some men who are involved in the terrible business of snatching---not purses but people,” she explains in an undertone.

Azelma nearly rolls her eyes at this dramatic statement, but the gravity is still clear in Marguerite’s tone. ‘ _This boy could be anyone,’_ she thinks as she looks at Macky. The tired look in his face suddenly changes and suddenly she sees Gavroche, much younger and far more wearied. _‘Like he was before Ponine was able to take us away....’_

“Azelma? Are you okay?” Cosette calls now from seemingly far off.

“Now I am,” Azelma manages to say, shaking her head if only to better focus on Macky’s pale face. She suppresses a shiver but the fact is still there; at any other time this boy could have been her, or either of her siblings. “So much for lunch,” she mutters.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Florence quips a little ruefully. She taps Marguerite’s arm “We should meet up, once we get everything sorted.”

“I’d like that,” Marguerite says gamely. “If you’d be so kind as to please share that picture, it would be of much help.”

In the meantime Eponine looks up from where she is tending to Macky. “He’s not poisoned on something but he’s had more alcohol than he can handle,” she pronounces.

Macky blinks blearily. “I can’t go to a hospital, they’ll kill me if they find me there,” he croaks.

“I’ll bring you to someplace safe in the meantime,” Marguerite tells him. “You’re welcome in my home.”

Macky nods, clearly still trying to gather his wits about him. “Will they find me?”

“They won’t. I’ve done this before,” Marguerite insists.

“What about Percy? I mean _both_ of them---your husband and your son?” Musichetta asks.

Marguerite merely shrugs. “They understand. We always do,”

All throughout this conversation and the ensuing discussion about investigations and authorities, Azelma remains silent. Somehow the afternoon seems darker for a reason she cannot quite put her finger on. “I think I have to go,” she says after a few moments as she picks up her purse. “I have to check on Alex...”

“I’ll drive you,” Eponine chimes in. She bites her lip before looking at their friends. “So we’ll catch up some other time?”

“Yes, and soon,” Cosette concurs. “Stay safe you two,” she adds, squeezing Azelma’s arm.

‘ _Do I look that shaken up?’_ Azelma wonders as she bids goodbye to the rest of the group and then follows her sister outside. She tosses the car keys to Eponine, but doesn’t say anything till they are both inside the car. “Ponine, what are you doing?” she asks. “You’re up to something again.”

“It’s the case, the one about the girl...the kids,” Eponine replies as she turns the key in the ignition. Her knuckles are white as she grips the steering wheel. “”Someone is bringing them to this city and taking them in for prostitution, drugs, among other things.”

Azelma squeezes her eyes shut, if only to stop the memories from welling up. “We were those kids, okay? You know how dangerous it is!” she seethes.

“I know, and that’s why I have to do something.””

“Why does it have to be you?”

Eponine bites her lip as they arrive at a red light. “It’s not just you, me, and Gav. When I was living at the halfway house, there were maybe twenty other girls with me. I thought I was brave then. These girls were something else.”

Azelma falls silent; it’s the first time that her sister has spoken about those years spent in the city while she and Gavroche had been put in one foster home after another. “In that part of town, there are plenty of gangs. Girls run with them too.”

“There was that. Many of the girls were runaways. I’m pretty sure some of them came from overseas. One of them had this story about a boyfriend she’d met online but who ditched her. Another girl had been told she’d land a job as a dancer, but she ended up in a brothel. There was also another girl who’d been picked up after she called for help for her friend. They’d been smuggling drugs in balloons, and one of them burst in her friend’s stomach....” Eponine trails off and shakes her head. “One night, Mother Asuncion woke me up. I’m not sure why me, and why not any of the other girls. A new kid had just been brought in. She was twelve. She’d been beaten badly, her knee was twisted and Mother Asuncion needed help to manage it. I had to basically pop that kneecap back in place. I don’t know how I did it, but it worked. That got me thinking.”

It now dawns on Azelma where her sister’s story is going. “That was when you decided to be a doctor.”

“At least to get out of there and do something different. Nursing school was a start and a fallback,” Eponine adds more easily. “After that....I guess Cosette, Daniel, Chetta, and Joly can tell you the rest.  Miss Fantine too.”

Azelma nods, seeing now where this story finally also picks up with hers and Gavroche’s, just a few years later. “I think someone might have told you this before, but you can’t save everyone.”

“The second part to that is it matters to those we do,” Eponine counters.

“Ponine, you don’t get it,” Azelma protests, crossing her arms over her seatbelt. “You’re in deep, and I guess Maurice is too since he works with Enjolras, Then there are Chetta, Cosette, and I don’t know...everyone else? I can’t lose you guys. Dad almost shot you and Enjolras last year. What if these guys come after you too?”

“That’s not going to happen, Zel.”

“How do you know that? What happened back there was pretty serious.”

Eponine is quiet for a moment. “I don’t know how we’ll do it, but the only way to be safe is putting an end to the entire chain. I really want to do this before I have the baby,” she says.

Azelma grits her teeth. “You’d better. He’s going to be your number one priority from then on.” She glances at her sister’s belly. “So what are you calling him?”

A more mischievous smile spreads over Eponine’s face. “Auguste and I are still debating about that.” Suddenly she gasps and quickly brings her hand to her middle. “Oh my God...”

“Ponine? Is something wrong?” Azelma asks, sitting up straight.

Eponine shakes her head before breaking into delighted laughter. “Not at all! I just felt my baby move!”


	21. Chapter 21

****

**Chapter 21: It’s A Fine Life**

“An improvised cannon would not leave this sort of debris. This was just meant to scare.”

 Enjolras smirks knowingly as he sets aside some Polaroid photos of ruined masonry at a factory. “It’s not that difficult nowadays to come across hard hitting ordnance, outside of the military circles.”

“You keep talking like that, Chief, and we’ll be investigating gun runners again,” Feuilly warns in a singsong voice. He picks up the photos and starts leafing through them once again. “Even the showy pyrotechnics can cause property damage when not set up right. Many kids can tell you so. All it will take to do _this_ is a run down to the firecracker store to get a really big rocket or a string of those smaller ones that they call pythons.”

The attorney grits his teeth as he imagines the unfortunate consequences of such experiments. “Unless we can prove that the union members did _not_ intend to blow up the factory, we may have to defend them from arson charges which their former employer will only be too happy to file,” he points out, lowering his voice lest they be overheard by the other people looking through files in the crime lab’s second floor.  Although this case is relatively low-profile compared to Clara Gardner’s situation or even his parents’ still ongoing divorce, he knows better than to let too many details slip to wayward ears.

“Then hopefully it won’t cross his mind,” Bahorel says nonchalantly as he saunters into the room, carrying some boxes. “Let him be the goose that he is.”  

Enjolras shakes his head more disapprovingly at this thought. ‘ _When everyone is guilty in some measure, that only means there is a chain to break,’_ he tells himself. It is rare that he has a case that is clear cut, wherein justice and impunity are in obvious opposition. “All the same we must not be overconfident.”

“Are you wary now about an even playing field?” Bahorel laughs.

“Why should we be?” Enjolras remarks before continuing to review the stacks of photographs. After a few minutes he hears what sounds like a squad car pulling up outside the lab. Inevitably this is followed by the racket of heavy footsteps mingled with gruff upbraiding and loud imprecations.  ‘ _Clearly some arrest has been made,’_ he notes as he carefully moves his work further away from the doorway.

In a few moments a blonde woman strides in, apparently heedless of the fact that her blue button-down blouse is soaking wet. She stops in her tracks as her gaze falls on Bahorel. “Remy, what are you doing here?” she asks.

Bahorel’s look is one of consternation but it changes into a grin as he takes stock of her bedraggled appearance. “Did you have chilli for lunch? I never saw you have to cool off that desperately.”

The woman scoffs as she pushes up her sodden sleeves. “Who has time to eat when you have an arrest to make?”

“Next thing I know, Karen, you’ll be asking me to make you a sandwich just so you’ll eat,” Bahorel quips.

“I prefer you taking me out to dinner,” the woman named Karen retorts.

‘ _This explains a great deal,’_ Enjolras notes even as he hears Feuilly loudly clearing his throat. “Are you well?” he asks Feuilly discreetly.

Feuilly nods quickly. “Bahorel, are we forgetting something?” he chimes in before elbowing him.

Bahorel scowls but still holds out a hand to his friends. “Friends, meet Miss Karen Hooper. Karen, may I introduce my comrades Enjolras and Feuilly.”

“If we are getting in the way, Officer Hooper, we can move our work elsewhere,” Enjolras offers as he shakes Karen’s hand cordially.

“Not at all. This isn’t the room for handling all the fresh evidence I picked up,” Karen replies casually. She surveys her drenched attire once again. “I wouldn’t have been able to make the arrest if it wasn’t for your wife’s help. She was the one who pulled the fire alarm that called off the suspects that would have had everyone at gunpoint.”

‘ _That is something Eponine would definitely do,’_ Enjolras notes, smiling briefly despite the frisson of worry coursing through him. “What happened?”

“The suspect was trying to lure a boy into a job of the illicit sort.” Karen’s face twists with disgust and she takes a few deep breaths.  “Marguerite Blakeney is taking care of him now, while I handle the suspects. There weren’t any casualties.”

Enjolras nods. “That is good.” He brings out his phone and goes straight to the voicemail option. “Eponine, how are you? I’m at the crime lab now, and I heard from Officer Hooper about what happened at lunch. Please call me when you get this. Thanks.”

In the meantime Feuilly regards all of this with a bored expression. “That, I understand, Chief,” he says, gesturing to Enjolras’ cell phone. He rolls his eyes as he gestures to where Bahorel is pestering Karen despite her attempts to excuse herself. “This will take a little minding,” Feuilly adds in an undertone.

“Is there a problem?” Enjolras asks.

“Just look at it. Not very gentlemanly, and she has to get away,” Feuilly mutters.

Enjolras goes up to Bahorel and clasps his shoulder. “Unfortunately, all this talk aside, I believe we all have work to do.”

Bahorel gives Enjolras a rueful look before squaring his shoulders and smiling at Karen. “I’ll find you later. We aren’t finished yet,” he tells her in a low voice.

“Call me,” Karen says firmly before turning on her heel and walking out of the room.

Bahorel shrugs at this. “Such an impossible woman.”

“You’re the one who is impossible, my friend,” Feuilly shoots back. “She was here to work.”

“Conversation aside?”

“You’re going to lose her if you keep that up.”

This time it’s Enjolras’ turn to roll his eyes as his two friends begin to argue. It’s just as well that his phone begins to ring, and the number there is just the one he wants to see. “That was quick, Eponine,” he greets, not hiding the relief in his voice.

“Not as quick as news getting around,” Eponine replies candidly. “I’m okay, so don’t you worry. Actually I’m with Zel at her place. Gav is here too.”

Enjolras finally takes a deep breath, if only to relieve himself of the feeling of his heart hammering in his chest. “So I take you have the rest of the afternoon free?”

“Pretty much. We could check out some of the houses we’ve been looking up,” Eponine suggests.

“Now suddenly you’re so domestic?”

“We may as well. I don’t want to be house hunting right next to my due date!”

Enjolras chuckles at her tone. “Alright then. I’ll finish up here, and come over in a while.”

“Take your time; we’re still working out lunch here,” Eponine says. “I’ll see you--- _oh no_ , Alex, don’t put that in your mouth!” she calls before quickly hanging up.

‘ _That’s a preview of our lives in a few months,’_ Enjolras realizes as he pockets his phone. He looks to where Feuilly is swiftly packing up papers while Bahorel is filling out a form at a desk across the room. “Are you finished with your discussion?” Enjolras asks tersely.

“I need to make a trip,” Feuilly replies, pointedly avoiding even a glance in Bahorel’s direction. “I’ll give you an update on anything I find by tomorrow,” he tells Enjolras before heading to the door.

Bahorel sticks out his tongue as soon as the door is shut. “Why is Feuilly suddenly making this an issue?” he gripes. “I am not accountable to him.”

“It may have to do with how you relate to Officer Hooper, especially in her capacity as colleague and co-investigator,” Enjolras points out.

Bahorel scoffs. “Karen is not just a colleague.”

“All the more reason to give this consideration,” Enjolras says sternly. “That is my piece on the matter.”

Bahorel nods slowly. “Since Feuilly is in a mood, and I probably ought to do some talking with Karen while you have to meet Eponine, are we already done for the day? This place only admits visitors till noon or so on the weekends.”

Enjolras carefully takes stock of all the photographic evidence they have somehow collected despite all this chitchat.  “We have to make another trip here on Monday,” he decides.

 “Understood, Chief,” Bahorel says, making a mock salute before quickly ducking out of the room.

Enjolras takes a few more moments to check over their work once more, and only then he heads out to his car for the drive to the Courfeyrac residence. He keeps the radio on during the entire trip, listening for any early coverage of the events that Karen has related to him, but surprisingly the noontime news is silent on the matter. It’s a quiet that Enjolras finds welcome and yet unnerving all at once.

When he arrives at his friend’s home, he only has to ring the doorbell once before Gavroche, with Alex in tow, greets him at the front door. “Hello Enjolras. You’re just in time to help babysit!” Gavroche says cheerily before unceremoniously placing the baby in Enjolras’ arms.

Enjolras barely has time to adjust his hold on the child, more so when she screeches in protest at this sudden change. “Alright, I’ve got you, Alex,” he mutters when he finally manages to cradle her properly. He gives Gavroche a withering look. “Give me fair warning next time.”

 “Better now than later,” Gavroche quips before chucking Alex’s chin. “See, your big scary uncle isn’t that horrible.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes as he tries to bounce the increasingly restless baby. He cannot imagine now how he’s going to hold his own son when the time comes.  In fact just looking around the living room is surreal for him; there is now a playpen in the corner where Courfeyrac once kept his weights, and there are baby toys on the sofa, the coffee table, and even on the window seat. Suddenly he catches a whiff of butter, pepper, and oregano in the air. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Zel and Courf are upstairs,” Gavroche replies, wiggling his eyebrows. “Ponine is taking charge of lunch.”

“I see,” Enjolras deadpans only to end up chuckling when Alex blows a raspberry at him. “Now what was that for?”

“It’s what little kids do,” Eponine calls from the kitchen doorway. She is wearing one of Azelma’s sundresses, and the light material glides over her form perfectly, making Enjolras’ mouth go dry as he watches her walk up to join them. “How was work?” she asks as she helps him adjust his grip again on little Alex.

Enjolras smiles gratefully when Alex snuggles more comfortably into his shoulder. He plants a quick kiss on Eponine’s cheek. “Interesting. Your friend Karen Hooper has a way of delivering news.”

Eponine laughs. “I figured. She’s quite the character.”

Gavroche glances at his sister and his brother-in-law. “So this thing with her and Bahorel is serious?”

“It’s only been a few weeks,” Enjolras points out.

“It’s already one for Bahorel’s Book of Records,” Gavroche quips before reaching out to take Alex. “There, it’s time to be with the fun uncle again.”

Eponine pokes her brother in the ribs. “If you corrupt her, you’re going to hear from me first even before Zel gets wind of it.” She takes Enjolras’ hand to pull him to the kitchen. “I’ve got something I _have_ to show you,” she whispers excitedly.

“What is it?” Enjolras asks before Eponine suddenly places his hand on her abdomen, just near her right hip. It takes a few moments till he feels a light nudge right under his palm. “Is that....“  

Eponine nods gleefully. “He knows it’s you. I had the phone on speaker mode when I listened to your voice mail _and_ when I called you, and I swear he was all over the place when you started talking.”

Enjolras grins as he feels the baby kick again, this time near his fingers. “This is amazing. I thought that you wouldn’t be able to pick up on that for a few more weeks.”

“I guess he’s out to surprise us,” Eponine replies before stepping away to turn down the flames of one of the burners on the stove. She swats away Enjolras’ hand when he reaches out to lift the lid of the pot there. “It’s another ragout recipe. No peeking!”

“How many of those do you have?” Enjolras asks bemusedly.

“As many opportunities I’ve had to cook this,” she replies. “There’s some garlic bread though if you and Gavroche want to get an early start. We’re also having some buttered corn too; that should be ready in a few minutes.”

“It’s unbelievable that you have the energy for all of this,” he remarks as he brings out the tray of garlic bread from the oven. Then again he knows that cooking is something she considers as leisure; perhaps owing to the more leisurely planning involved as opposed to surgery.

When Enjolras returns to the dining area, Azelma and Courfeyrac are already there with Gavroche and Alex. “I knew that Eponine would chase you out,” Courfeyrac jokes. He punches Enjolras’ shoulder. “Nice to see you here.”

Azelma sighs deeply as she nods to her brother-in-law. “I can’t believe you’re so calm. Is this a _normal_ thing for you guys? Can’t you ever go out for lunch without some drama?”

“On Wednesdays we tell the goons to take a day off,” Enjolras deadpans.

“Enjolras, someone pointed a gun at Azelma’s back,” Courfeyrac says tersely as he clasps Azelma’s hand. “She didn’t sign up for that, not like the rest of us.”

“It’s not that, Maurice,” Azelma manages to say. “I was just this close to not seeing you, Alex, Gav, or anyone else again. Especially Alex.” She swipes at her eyes before looking at Enjolras. “You’ll understand better when your son is born.”

Enjolras is quiet, now that he sees how rattled Azelma still is. “My apologies.”

“Has the spawn got a name yet?” Gavroche asks through a mouthful of garlic bread. “Maxime is a step up from good old Maximillien.”

“Maxime? Are you serious?” Azelma chimes in. “You’re better off with something literary like Dorian.”

“Now that’s going to be a kid who’s never getting art lessons,” Courfeyrac snickers.

“I’m not sure that is how the story goes,” Enjolras points out. He takes a moment to get a piece of garlic bread. The crispness is a sharp contrast to the savoury blend of butter, garlic, and basil. “It doesn’t lend itself to good nicknames,” he adds.

“A hell lot better than Aureliano or Aurelien,” Courfeyrac quips.

“Definitely not.”

“What about Marcellin?” Gavroche suggests.

Courfeyrac grimaces. “Too old fashioned.”

“I’d go with the name Julien,” Azelma suggests.

“It sounds despotic,” Enjolras mutters.

“It’s a cooking step, that’s what it is,” Gavroche chuckles. “Sebastien? You can call him Basti, and that’s pretty badass.”

“Yeah but people kind of see a _crab_ when the name Sebastien comes up. Just ask my students,” Azelma points out. “Antoine sounds pretty classy.”

“It’s the sort of name that one has to say with a powder up the nose,” Gavroche argues. “Let’s make it easier and call him Alexandre---“

Azelma gives him a withering look. “I’ll cut you for that.”

Gavroche sticks out his tongue at her. “What about Vincent?”

“That’s my second name. I never liked it,” Enjolras replies. “At the rate we’re going we’re going to have an everyday name like Jean----“

Gavroche and Azelma groan while Courfeyrac bursts out laughing. “Everyone is named Jean. Do you seriously want to lose your kid in a classroom?”

“That is why we have second names,” Enjolras retorts.

Azelma grabs a piece of garlic bread. “I’d go with Gabriel. It’s not unusual but it’s respectable.”

“It only works if he comes out like curly tops over here,” Courfeyrac jokes as he nudges Enjolras.

“So what if this kid ends up with straight dark hair like Ponine has?” Gavroche asks.

“Then call him Henri,” Azelma replies smugly. “That works too.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Why would I name my son after yet another king?” 

“Says the man who is named Auguste?” Eponine chimes in as she enters the dining room, carrying the pot of ragout and setting it down. “I’m quite partial to the name Louis.”

“Another monarch’s name?” Enjolras asks, trying not to cringe.

Eponine snorts at his expression. “If it was up to you, our son would walk around with a name after some revolutionary like Lech or Che.”

“Now I’m going to be reasonable about that. We probably should make lists and think this out more thoroughly,” Enjolras suggests. “He’s going to have to live with this for the rest of his life.”

“That’s why I don’t want anything that’s going to be controversial,” Eponine concurs, moving the tray of garlic bread to allow Gavroche to put the bowl of buttered corn on the table. “People, especially kids, can be really mean about that.”

“Which was why I always used to introduce us as Nina, Zellie, and Gav all the way till middle school,” Azelma points out as she picks up Alexandra and props her up in a high chair. “There, there, it’s your lunchtime too now,” she tells the baby before kissing the top of her head and heading to the kitchen.

Courfeyrac grins at the sound of Azelma opening the refrigerator. “It’s applesauce day today,” he explains to the rest of the family.  “We have to mix new foods in with stuff she likes such as applesauce, porridge, or honey; otherwise she’ll simply spit everything out.”

Eponine laughs and shakes her head. “Aren’t you getting to be a picky eater, Alex?” she asks, only to have the baby giggle in her face. “Try not to give your Maman and Papa a hard time, please?”

Alex only squeaks and laughs again, which only sets everyone else off chuckling as well. Enjolras sees Eponine and Azelma exchange smiles that speak of nostalgia, perhaps about similar scenes from their own childhoods, when Gavroche was still a little boy. The thought has him smiling, even if he knows that he himself cannot draw on any similar recollections of warm mealtimes or living room gatherings outside of the holiday season. ‘ _Hardly surprising,’_ he reminds himself; after all his father was absorbed with work while his mother had her social commitments to keep up. All the same it’s rather unsettling, and he wills himself to keep his composure as he helps pass around the ragout and buttered corn. He sees that Eponine’s eyes are dark with concern when she meets his gaze but he doesn’t say anything to this, preferring instead to enjoy the food. The ragout is slightly piquant and the buttered corn practically melts in his mouth, and these as well as the lively conversation are just what he needs at this moment. 

It is only when they are alone in their car that Eponine gives him that knowing glance as she squeezes his knee. “That’s a bit of how we’re going to be in a few months, you know.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, if only to keep calm. “I cannot imagine how we’ll get there.”

“We won’t be as peachy but we’ll be interesting.” She clasps his hand and rubs her thumb over his pulse point. “Our kid is going to idolize you, I’m sure of it. Maybe he won’t necessarily want to be a lawyer but he’s going to be that one little boy who’s going to tell all his friends that his dad can do _everything_.”

“How sure you about that?”

“You’ll love him, and I’ve never known you to do a half-assed job at anything.”

Enjolras smiles at this vote of confidence. “Speaking of which, he still needs a name.”

“I’m not kidding about liking the name Louis,” Eponine quips. “I’ve always liked the name Jules but somehow it sounds a little wrong with the surname ‘Enjolras.”

“There are worse combinations,” Enjolras points out. “Any other ideas?”

“Eugene. Geoffrey. Maybe even the name Lucien,” Eponine replies, now cracking a smile. “I had thought of using a name passed down in my family; I don’t know why my father didn’t give it to Gavroche.”

“What name is it?”

“Adrian.”

Enjolras silently tries out the name. “It works.”

Eponine shrugs. “I’m not entirely sold on using it. Are there any names you actually like, besides anything incendiary?”

 “Sylvain,” Enjolras replies. “I’m not sure about the nicknames for that.”

She makes a face. “Not all boys would like to be called Syl.” She takes a moment to check the GPS. “Oh we’re nearing the first address.”

‘ _Which will not be ours,’_ Enjolras realizes when he sees a ‘SOLD’ sign on the house’s fence. He squeezes Eponine’s hand when he sees her shoulders slump with disappointment. “There are other addresses we’ve looked up.” 

She takes a moment to check something on her phone. “There’s only one address still available that’s near our workplaces. The rest are just too far.”

“It’s still worth a try,” he points out. “We may as well since we’re still on the road.”

She nods after a moment. “Fine. But if we don’t get an address or start talking about buying anything by the end of this month, we’d better talk about rearranging our apartment.”

“It’s not going to come to that,” Enjolras says confidently. As far as he’s concerned their son deserves far better than to take his first steps in the cramped rooms they still call home. He feels nothing but relief when they finally pull up outside a small two-storey brownstone house with a green wrought-iron fence, and the ‘FOR SALE’ sign is still hanging from the gate. As he and Eponine go to ring the doorbell he feels her slip her hand in his. The clear ringing of the chime pierces the air and a few moments later a spindly elderly woman clad in a long white housedress and apron opens the front door. “Good afternoon Ma’am. We’re here to inquire about the house,” he greets cordially.

The woman stares first at him and then at Eponine. “Doctor Thenardier! Is that really you?”

Eponine laughs even as she turns a little pink. “Hello Mrs. Escobar. It’s Doctor Enjolras now by the way.” She squeezes Enjolras’ hand. “She was a patient of mine,” she explains to him.  

Mrs. Escobar smiles widely as she hobbles towards the gate to let them in.  “Your wife is the best doctor. You’re a lucky man,” she tells Enjolras, swatting his arm for emphasis. She places a hand on Eponine’s stomach. “How many months?”

“Almost five,” Eponine replies. “I thought you were living with your family.”

“They’re noisy, I moved back here, but it’s too much for a woman with my hips. I’m taking an apartment,” Mrs. Escobar explains as she unbolts the gate. “I’ll give you this house for a lower price.”

“You don’t have to. We’re willing to pay the actual value,” Enjolras answers uncomfortably. 

“I was also a young bride too, with a little one along the way. Believe me, I know you two need every cent you can get,” Mrs. Escobar says a little more chidingly. “Come on, I’ll show you both my house.”

Enjolras sees Eponine’s eyes brighten as they step into the house, and he knows right away that she’s definitely charmed by this place. He can see why; the front room is not large but it is cozy with enough space for a small group of family and friends to gather to watch movies or play games. The walls painted the color of light butterscotch only make the space more inviting. “There’s a large alcove there we can use for a reading corner,” he points out as Mrs. Escobar starts turning on more of the lights in the hall to show them the small bathroom to one side of the corridor.

“Maybe it could be a breakfast nook too,” Eponine replies. Her jaw drops when she steps into the kitchen. “Oh my God. This is what I’ve always dreamed of!”

“A kitchen opening out into an herb garden?” Mrs. Escobar asks bemusedly.

Eponine nods enthusiastically. “I’ve never lived anywhere with enough space for more than a few pots.”

Enjolras grins as he watches Eponine follow Mrs. Escobar around as the latter shows her the light brown marble counters, as well as some large wooden cupboards and the pantry. “I take that this will be your space to decorate,” he remarks as he takes her arm.

“You know me so well,” Eponine says. “Okay, that’s going to be our breakfast nook,” she adds, pointing to a corner. “Then that tree outside....maybe a tree house for our son if he’s into that sort of thing?”

“Ah you’re having a boy!” Mrs. Escobar sighs, clasping her hands. “You two are so lucky. I hope he’s as handsome as his father and as sweet as his mother.”

“As strong as her, rather,” Enjolras points out.

The widow nods. “Naturally. Now why don’t we go upstairs? There are three bedrooms, so there’s always room for another child or two.”

Eponine laughs nervously. “I want to at least get this one out of diapers first,”

“My dear, you won’t be young forever,” Mrs. Escobar scolds lightly as she leads them to the stairs. “Every child needs a sibling.”

“He turned out well without one,” Eponine says, glancing at her husband. “Besides how am I going to have time to be a doctor if I’m going to have to keep on going on maternity leave?”

Mrs. Escobar clucks her tongue as she fishes in her apron pocket for a set of keys. “There’s an upstairs bathroom but the master’s bedroom has its own bathroom too.”

“That’s good,” Enjolras concurs as they begin to make their inspection of the rooms. The master’s suite has a large enough alcove near the window that he knows will be enough to fit a desk. “Now that’s going to be another reading nook,” he notes.

“The bedroom is not supposed to be a workroom, but I guess we’ve got interesting habits,” Eponine teases. “I like that the window doesn’t _exactly_ face east but we can still catch the dawn anyway.”

“Why so?”

“Aesthetics. Anyway the light is as good as an alarm clock as anything.”

Enjolras gives her a knowing smirk as they move on to take a look at the other rooms. “I think the room next to ours should be our kid’s room. The other room can be a library or playroom in the meantime.”

“In the meantime?” Eponine asks. “You don’t mean to say....”

“If it happens, it happens. Just not right away,” he reassures her. “Are we still painting this room green?”

She nods slowly. “He’s going to be named Ian.”

“Why that?” Enjolras inquires curiously.

“It’s short enough to use every day, and it’s still somewhat connected to the name Adrian,” Eponine replies. “If we named him Adrian we’d end up shortening it somehow so we may as well skip that.”

“That’s true,” Enjolras concurs. “Very practical.”

“Thank you.” She takes his hand. “Now what about a second name? Your turn.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer right away as he goes through every name he’s considered in the past few hours and days. Definitely names of relatives are out of the question, but perhaps not the names of mentors or old friends. “What about the name Charles?”

Her eyes go wide with curiosity. “Oh? What’s the story there?”

“My mentor, Professor Myriel,” Enjolras replies.  “I’ve mentioned him before.”

“Now and then.” Eponine hums as if she is mulling over the name.  “Ian Charles Enjolras. That’s it then.”

“Good.” Enjolras brushes her hair out of her face. “So what about this place?”

“Let’s see what Mrs. Escobar has to say. I like this too, nearly as much as our son’s name.”

He laughs and kisses her forehead before taking her hand to help her downstairs, where Mrs. Escobar is calling for them to join her for some tea.


	22. Chapter 22

****

**Chapter 22: No Escaping Eyes of Stone**

The first weekend of September, or rather the last weekend of the summer finds Combeferre with a camera in hand, chasing after Florence in a crowd just outside one of the city’s oldest houses of prayer. “Flor, I think the marker is back by the door!” he shouts over the din of the bells tolling the hour.

“That’s the _compass!_ All churches this old have one!” Florence calls over her shoulder as she rushes up the steps on the cathedral’s side entrance. “I’m sure it’s down by the bell tower’s entrance.”

‘ _She’s the one with the map and the guidebook,’_ Combeferre notes as he takes off his spectacles just long enough to wipe off any smudges in order to allow him to better appreciate the church’s three soaring white spires as well as its arched doorways and vestibules. It’s an odd juxtaposition with the dusty square outside the cathedral; this place is always full of people strolling, hawking all kinds of goods, or simply hurrying to worship. Today is a Sunday, a time for pilgrimages, thus alongside the usual hustle and bustle are huddles of these wayfarers poring over maps or muttering litanies as they file into the church. The hot breeze carries with it the fragrance of bread and sugar from the parish’s community bakery, just off to one side of the square. Combeferre politely mutters ‘excuse me’ and ‘sorry’ as he weaves his way past a group of children lighting a whole row of tiny candles under a statue of the Blessed Virgin. He is not sure whose idea it was to go on a trip to get pictures of every historical marker in this particular quarter of the city but he’s not about to second-guess the matter when they have already tracked down twenty-one of the National Heritage Society’s plaques on various government buildings, schools, churches, and even street corners. If they are lucky, they will find their twenty-second marker within the next few minutes.

Florence suddenly runs ahead, up towards the heavy door below the church’s leftmost spire. “Over here,” she says, pointing to a black square plaque with the tricolor seal seen on all the city’s heritage sites. ‘ _The Cathedral of Our Lady of Grace and its adjoining monastery were built in the year 1688 by the Order of the Divine Word prior to the order being disbanded during the revolution of 1789. The church was deconsecrated in the year 1790 but was rededicated by the diocese in 1801. The church and the monastery were heavily damaged during the Allies’ carpet bombing during the final days of the Second World War. The decrepit monastery complex was demolished in the city’s rezoning in 1946; however the church was repaired through the efforts of the parishioners. Renovations were completed in 1968, along with the installation of new stained glass windows in the west vestibule.’_

Combeferre sighs at this prosaic write-up. “Is this the church with a story about its bell-ringer?”

“No. That one is across town. I actually did know that bell-ringer, somewhat.” Florence replies.

“Was he---“

“Misshapen? Yes. A murderer? No one knows.”

Combeferre nods before taking a picture of the marker and then the bell tower. This is not a day after all to be speaking of urban legends, especially those so sorely maligned in days gone by. Instead he contents himself with watching Florence racing about as she takes snapshots of the vestibule, the statues, and even the spires up above. She practically glides her way into the cathedral doorway and the sight makes him smile; it is as if he is catching a glimpse of the vivaciousness of her beauty, the girl she had once been in the days when she and Meg Giry had danced together, the days before the accident that put her off the stage for good.

Florence is oblivious to this scrutiny as she crosses the vestibule, keeping her eyes trained on the mottled marble tiles. “This church is said to have a secret tunnel,” she whispers as she runs the tip of her right boot along a crack. “It was a last refuge from bandits.”

“It is probably closed to explorers. The geological safety of this region is still in question,” Combeferre notes. “There is a threat, however slight, of liquefaction occurring in some areas near the river.”

“I thought that was in case of earthquakes,” Florence points out as she takes his hand to lead him further into the nave. She stops in her tracks as she catches sight of a sharply dressed gentleman with wire-rimmed glasses. “I’ve seen him before,” she mutters.

Combeferre does a double take just to ensure the identity of this person. “That is the Minister of Trade and Commerce, Mr. Magnussen,” he says. Just mentioning the name of this man has him feeling as if his skin is going to crawl. “I’ve seen him in some fundraising events at Saint-Michel.”

Florence surreptitiously glances at this personage who is now admiring a stained glass window. “He also is a distinguished guest at the university,” she adds. “Fairly often, I will admit.”

The thin tone to Florence’s voice has Combeferre on edge but before he can ask he suddenly sees Magnussen look their way. “Doctor Combeferre, I presume? Professor Johnson as well,” Magnussen greets with a slight smile. “This is a charming place for a rendezvous.”

 “We’re revisiting the city’s historical markers,” Combeferre replies. He nods apologetically when a woman in a lace veil looks up from her prayers just long enough to throw him a reproving glare. “We are disturbing the other churchgoers---“

“Allow me to walk you two out,” Magnussen says evenly, but his tone is one that does not brook any contradiction. He accompanies the pair as far the steps on the church’s east vestibule, but then he moves now to stand between them and the street. “Now this is far more conducive to conversation, I am sure you would agree,” he notes as he looks Combeferre in the face.

“It would still depend on the topic,” Florence cuts in as she discreetly takes Combeferre’s arm.

“Do you consider acquaintances an indiscreet topic then, Miss Johnson?” Magnussen asks. He straightens out his tie before casually leaning against a rail. “It is interesting that you have renewed your acquaintance with Percy and Marguerite Blakeney.”

“It is only because we have a mutual friend who was recently in need of care.” Combeferre knows better than to deny knowing the pair; any search of old photos would tell anyone otherwise. “It is impossible to ignore old friends in this city.”

Magnussen’s smile is thin. “Their rescue work is commendable in some measure. However it, especially the debacle with the boy Macky DeWitt has caused serious speculations in important places.”

It takes Combeferre a moment to realize that Magnussen is referring to none other than the same boy who his friends met in the diner just a few weeks ago; one look at Florence’s wide eyes confirms his guess. “Exactly what speculations?” he asks once he can find his voice.   

“Usually accusations of scandal and illegal solicitation are not the Ministry’s concern. However the matter has cast much doubt onto some important personages and investments,” Magnussen replies as he takes a step, resting his hand near Florence’s. “This is a very costly hindrance.”

Florence hisses as she jerks away and her grip tightens on Combeferre’s arm. “This should be the concern of their lawyers then, not your department,” she hisses.

“Are you suddenly an expert in governance?” Magnussen laces his fingers together as he eyes the pair again. “I would strongly encourage that your friends the Blakeneys, as well as Attorney Enjolras, reconsider meddling in affairs outside of their spheres of influence. The consequences for stubbornness are not particularly rewarding.”

Combeferre’s teeth are on edge but he manages a nod. “They’ll hear of it, surely.  Thank you for your time, Mr. Magnussen,” he says slowly. He takes a step back towards the church door, taking care to keep Florence close to him. ‘ _Do not let him see your back,’_ he tells himself all the way till he and Florence are safely inside the church, where they can make a quick exit back towards the square.

Florence is pale and looks as if she’ll be sick. She sits on the first bench they find and holds her head in her hands. “There is a reason that the dean of my college likes to call him the Puppeteer,” she says between deep breaths. “Now you know.”

Combeferre pulls her closer and rubs her back. “Do you need anything, Flor?”

Florence sits up straight and looks over her shoulder. “Just get us out of here.” She taps his shoulder to call his attention to where Magnussen is now standing at the church’s door. “I don’t think you should get your phone now...he’s probably figuring who you’ll call.”

Combeferre feels his stomach twist when Magnussen waves to them before walking to a sleek black sedan on the other side of the square. “It’s time to go for some ice cream,” Combeferre finally says when he can find his voice again.

Florence’s jaw drops again. “Ice cream?”

“An old cure from intern days,” Combeferre explains as he slings his arm around Florence’s shoulder while they get to their feet. ‘ _We’ll need a whole gallon then to stave off what he has in store,’_ he notes. He could almost chide himself for resorting to this old superstition but at this point he’s ready to take anything to ward off the chill that Magnussen’s appearance has brought.

Fortunately for them there is an ice cream parlor three blocks away, and from here a relatively straightforward route back to Florence’s apartment. Much to Combeferre’s amazement, the once cluttered space is now spacious, owing to the fact that nearly everything is now in boxes. “We’re not moving to our new place for two more days,” he reminds her as they sit on her now bare sofa bed.

“Two more days which I know you’ll spend throwing all _your_ things into crates,” Florence says nonchalantly as she opens up the gallon of cookie dough ice cream and sticks two spoons in. “I’m making my life easier.”

Combeferre grins as he extricates a large gob of ice cream and shoves it into his mouth. The sickly sweetness is invigorating in a strange way. “I have to warn Enjolras, Eponine, Marguerite, and Percy,” he finally says as he brings out his phone to send a message.

“Karen as well,” Florence supplies as she watches him texting. “She’s the major hand behind that takedown. Speaking of which, I must say I like her very much. Not sure about the other guys, I heard there’s trouble on that front.”

“What front?” Combeferre asks, now picking up his spoon again.

“I heard from Chetta, who of course heard from the guys that Feuilly and Bahorel had some words over Karen,” Florence explains before getting another spoonful of ice cream. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think Feuilly was jealous.”

The thought nearly has Combeferre choking on his latest serving of ice cream. “Feuilly has always seen himself as Bahorel’s personal brake. Don’t judge him.”

“Hey, I know what’s going on. It’s just that those who don’t know them as well may think something different....” Florence trails off before shaking her head. “It’s only a misunderstanding. They’re old enough to clear it up among themselves.”

‘ _Old enough to understand that nothing is forever,’_ Combeferre would like to think. Maybe he can’t be the best judge of the matter, but he has the feeling now that Karen is certainly that needed change in the wind. Suddenly he gets the feeling that they are all years older than they were yesterday or two weeks ago.

Combeferre goes to the window to open it for some much needed air, and that’s when he sees the black sedan slowly drive by the curb. His hand tightens on the sill as he watches the car seemingly come to a stop for a few moments before speeding off down the street. “We have to go now,” he whispers as he slowly shuts the window.

Florence slams the lid of the ice cream container. “He followed us, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“We can’t go to your place then.”

Combeferre nods as he follows her to her closet in order to help her throw her remaining clothes and effects into a suitcase. “We may as well move your other things then,’ he tells Florence.

Florence pauses in the middle of folding up some clothes. “What about yours?”  

“They’ll have to wait.” Right now there are more urgent things to do such as warning his friends of this latest development, and then actually relocating to another apartment, not too far from here. He can do without his own things for a while, for as long as he can be sure that Florence will be safe.

It’s nearly evening by the time they stop driving around the city, and they make their way up to their large three room apartment on the top floor of a new apartment complex. They have nothing there, but when Florence holds out her hand to him, he’s only too glad to sink beside her to the floor.

It’s morning again when Combeferre wakes to the feel of Florence still dozing in his arms, as well as the beeping of his phone receiving yet another message. “Are we late for work?” Florence groans as she buries her nose in his shoulder.

Combeferre blinks blearily at the message. “Not yet. Ramen night tonight though.”

“It’s Monday.”

“There’s news. You know how the grapevine goes. Everyone is in on the loop now, so now everyone has to be on their guard too.”


	23. Chapter 23

As far as Bossuet is concerned, a quiet office as a good working environment is anathema. “This has gone too far Courf,” he complains when he sees Feuilly pointedly ignoring Bahorel once again en route to the water cooler. “One day is enough, but several on end?”

Courfeyrac leans back dramatically in his seat before looking around to make sure that the rest of their colleagues are sufficiently engrossed in their work. “Time for an intervention.” He holds out his fist. “Rock, paper, scissors. First to three, the one with lesser points gets to talk to Feuilly.”

Bossuet pounds Courfeyrac’s fist thrice. “That’s settled,” he says as he grabs a tumbler from his desk drawer. Knowing his luck he’s not going to win this game anyway, and besides if the problem concerns some of Bahorel’s more recent liaisons, then Courfeyrac would be in a better position to manage that end of the situation.

He’s only halfway to the water cooler when he sees Feuilly walking back with a full mug in hand. “Come now to pull me aside?” Feuilly asks wryly as he stops in his tracks.

Bossuet merely laughs at having been so easily found out. “It’s no secret that you’ve had Discord as your bedfellow for a while now.”

“Not exactly,” Feuilly says as he tips some of his water into Bossuet’s tumbler. “Would Grantaire know if there is some Greek deity for Weariness? It’s more because....” he trails off before taking a sip of water. “Officer Hooper deserves better than to be another notch in Bahorel’s bedpost.”

‘ _She’d be a deep notch then,’_ Bossuet catches himself thinking, but he bats the thought away. It’s just this sort of thinking that’s part of the present problem. “I think if she was just that, she would have gone running by now.”

“How would you be so certain?”

“We wondered the same thing about Florence, and look where she and Combeferre are now.”

Feuilly rolls his eyes. “That’s Combeferre. We’re talking about Bahorel, the guy who used to say he had a revolving door into his bedroom. You’d think that at our age he’d quit that.”

“Maybe this is why Karen is finally here. It’s Fate.” Bossuet merely smiles at Feuilly’s disbelieving look. “You think it too.”

“I just don’t want his hormones throwing a wrench into our work. It’s not often we have a good friend on the police force,” Feuilly mutters before finishing the rest of his water. “I know how it looks, so I’ll get it sorted with Bahorel. Today. You have my word.”

“May all deities be praised,” Bossuet says as he lifts his tumbler by way of making a toast.

When they return to the cubicles they find Bahorel handing over a bill to Courfeyrac. “Which of the pools did you lose now?” Feuilly asks.

“Gender and name,” Bahorel grouses good-naturedly. “After the New Year, we’ll be hanging around waiting for Ian Charles to be born.”

Bossuet gapes at Enjolras, who is smirking as he types away on his laptop. “You’re naming your kid after your law school professor?”

“He was the second person who convinced me to come back to the city after my stay in Port Town. After him,” Enjolras replies, gesturing to Feuilly. “And he was an excellent teacher too.”

“I remember. I hauled you off to his house so he could talk a bit more to you. Best reason to drive eight hours into the hills,” Feuilly explains. “Surprised it wasn’t you or Combeferre who did it.”

“Because I was in a bit of a pickle at that time and Combeferre was starting residency. Besides someone here was being a bit incommunicado in those days,” Courfeyrac chimes in as he pokes Enjolras.

“Well we’re not going back to that,” Enjolras remarks over the sound of the buzzer at the door. A moment later sharply dressed gentleman coolly strides in. “Good morning Mr. Magnussen. Is there anything we can do for you?”

Magnussen walks up to their cubicles, smiling as if he is surveying his personal realm. “You clearly have been expecting my visit, Attorney Enjolras.”

“Perhaps with some prior announcement,” Enjolras says. Bossuet can now see out of the corner of his eye how quickly his friend saves his work with just a few taps on the keyboard. “Please, take a seat.”

“I do not intend to make this a long business meeting, Attorney,” Magnussen answers. “A number of your associates have caused trouble for Mr. Bidault, one of our country’s biggest names in the stock exchanges and telecommunications. The consequences, as you can see, have been unprecedented.”

“What Mr. Bidault does outside of his office hours is not our particular concern. What happens to an under-aged immigrant being solicited and taken into an illegal contract is our concern---especially given the circumstances,” Enjolras answers. “Therefore the charges against Mr. Bidault are also an unprecedented consequence.”

“Your activities have affected the confidence ratings in our investors,” Magnussen sneers. He surveys the corkboard that stands a few feet away and reaches out to twirl one of the pins there. “Matters of business are not your office’s concern.”

“Perhaps.” Enjolras moves his seat away from his computer. “Matters of public relations, especially of this nature, aren’t your Ministry’s concern---unless there is a matter of regulations and business practice that has also come to your attention.”

Magnussen laughs as he pulls another pin off the corkboard. “An astute conjecture. However, I am a businessman, an executive. Not a politician seeking office. Press relations are no matter to me, but efficiency and execution are. Your little detective show here is grime in the machine.”

“The same could be said for illicit contracts and practices that will shortly undergo review by the Ministry of Labor and Employment.” Enjolras puts his hands on the table. “Such hindrances could be easily prevented from the very beginning.”

“I am not here to argue, I am here to negotiate. You are in no position to sue and deal with countersuing---and nor are your colleagues, family, and friends.” Magnussen pauses in the middle of pulling out a pin just to look everyone in the eye. “It would be in your best interests to keep your eyes on the streets and back alleys, and away from my business.”

The very way Magnussen says these words has Bossuet’s hair standing on end, and he even sees Feuilly and Bahorel clench their fists, ready to deck this visitor if need be. Courfeyrac is already gritting his teeth, but Enjolras remains unfazed as he watches Magnussen’s smile twist into something cold and cruel. “My apologies but this is an offer we should refuse. Until we’ve successfully seen these cases all the way to the verdict, then we are within our mandate,” Enjolras says calmly.

“Do not toy with me. This is not a game for busybodies,’ Magnussen warns. He pulls a last pin off the corkboard. “You will find my notice uncomfortable. We will meet again.”

Bahorel makes an obscene gesture which prompts Feuilly to slap his hand even as Magnussen walks out. “It’s official. We can now tell Jehan that there is a new circle of Dante’s Inferno,” Bahorel mutters as he rubs his palm.

“How did he even get into the Ministry last year?” Feuilly asks. “A man like that----“

“Makes concessions and people give in,” Enjolras finishes as he goes over to check the mess that Magnussen has made thanks to unpinning nearly everything from the corkboard. He frowns as he picks up all the pictures, notes, and yarn that have fallen to the floor in a heap. “We ought to switch to a whiteboard,” he muses, more to himself than his companions.

“I thought for a moment he was going to piss on our stuff,” Bahorel drawls. “Wouldn’t put it past him, to be honest.”

“He kept on referring to his business. He’s someone’s patron then,” Courfeyrac observes.

“We’ll have to find out exactly who,” Enjolras concurs. “The depositions from Miss Gardner and Mister DeWitt will have to be reviewed again for anything they missed or anyone we have yet to talk to. This time we have to focus on the details of the offers that brought them here.”

“Miss Gardner was brought in to be a secretary. Mister DeWitt said he was to be given some office job of an undefined description at Mr. Bidault’s,” Feuilly supplies. “It is different from what happened to the sweatshop survivors last spring, who were brought in specifically for sewing.”

“Is this in any way connected to one of Bidault’s businesses?” Enjolras asks.

“Bidault does telecommunications but I wouldn’t put out of consideration the fact that his business is part of a conglomeration too,” Courfeyrac replies. “No wonder Magnussen thinks this is big. It is.”

Bossuet feels his stomach twist at these words. “What are we going to do?”

“Leave no stone unturned,” Enjolras answers. He brings out his phone and opens up a message. “This isn’t Magnussen’s first move. He threatened Combeferre and Florence yesterday, talking specifically about the Blakeneys as well as me and Eponine.”

“Damn it. He’s on to us,” Bahorel mutters.

“He has eyes everywhere.” Enjolras clears away the corkboard’s remaining contents, putting the city map to one side just so he can hang a large sheet of paper on the blank space. He begins writing down the names of Magnussen’s colleagues in the ministry as well as a number of businessmen apart from Bidault. “The inquiry begins here. It will take a lot of manpower, but this will be dangerous.”

“That is true for everything we do. You’re thinking something like the Fersen case?” Courfeyrac asks.

Enjolras nods. “The stakes have changed. Magnussen and his friends will strike at anyone they find. Therefore we cannot afford to have anyone be caught off-guard and defenceless, so I want as few people to be involved in this matter, voluntarily.”

“To limit collateral damage?” Feuilly clarifies.

Enjolras nods again. “We still have other cases to finish alongside this one.  If any of you would prefer to focus on those, let me know. I can do something about your paperwork to allow you to focus better on the other tasks at hand.”

‘ _He’s giving us a way out,’_ Bossuet realizes. “What if you need help?”

“I’ll let you know,” Enjolras promises. He takes a deep breath before looking at Bahorel and Feuilly. “Corporate investigation is out of your usual job description. Is this still fine with you?”

“I’ll finish that union case, but if you want someone on the ground watching businesses, I can make time,” Feuilly replies. “We can’t forget those people.”

“I’ll work with him,” Bahorel offers. “I hope you won’t need _my_ skill set though, outside perhaps of investigating any bodyguards and ordnance.”

“Hopefully.” Enjolras nods to Courfeyrac and Bossuet. “You two have the most legal leeway. What would you prefer?”

Courfeyrac claps his shoulder. “I’m still in. I’m all for shaking him down.”

“Will Azelma be fine with that? You have a daughter,” Enjolras points out.

Courfeyrac pauses and sighs. “I’ll talk with her about it.”

“You need a talker and a paper pusher. That’s my job, Chief. I’m in,” Bossuet chimes in.

“We may as well tell everyone about what’s going on,” Courfeyrac points out. “There’s no staying out completely since it was the ladies who took down Bidault after all.”

“Ramen night?” Bahorel asks.

Enjolras nods. “Tonight. It has to be then since we cannot wait till Wednesday. We can’t have it at your place though, Courfeyrac. He’s been tracking.”

Bossuet takes a moment to think. “Our place then. It hasn’t happened in a while,” he finally decides. “I’ll give Joly and Chetta the heads up.”

Bahorel snorts. “Time to hide your incriminating things?”

Bossuet laughs before bringing out his phone to send messages to his roommates, and then setting the gadget aside while waiting for their hopefully affirmative replies. It’s a whole quarter of an hour before he gets a call from Joly. “Hey L’aigle, why are we moving up ramen night?” Joly asks worriedly.

It takes a moment for Bossuet to find the words; there is nothing he hates more than ruining his lover’s good cheer. “That case we’ve been working on just got more dangerous.” He winces at the distressed noise Joly makes. “I’ll tell you and Chetta more about it later.  Is it okay to have everyone over?”

“Yeah. We’ll have to sit on the floor though. I hope there are enough cushions for the hard spots,” Joly replies. “We’d better make it pot luck though since our kitchen doesn’t have cauldrons.”

“Okay I’ll tell them. Are you with Chetta now?”

“She’s the one who told me to call. It’s fine with her too.”

“I really owe you guys. Till later guys,” Bossuet says more happily before ending the call. “It’s a go as long as it is pot luck,” he informs his officemates.

“That’s fair, especially given the short notice,” Enjolras agrees. “Thank you for this.”

“Look at this way---it will be _his_ turn to host once he and Eponine close the deal on their new love nest,” Bahorel points out. “When’s that happening, Chief?”

“Hopefully by the end of the month,” Enjolras mutters, reddening slightly at his friend’s choice of words. “It will be a little while before we can move in.”

“You two don’t have many things. It will be the work of a day,” Courfeyrac drawls. He glances at his watch. “Guess we have eight more hours to order in and pass the message. It’s only ten o’clock.”

“I thought it was almost lunch,” Bossuet groans. He figures that this has to be the effect of Magnussen’s unpleasant visit, but the unease does not quite diminish even with the passing of the day.

As soon as the clock strikes five, Bossuet rushes home to clean up the place while his friends see to various errands. It seems fairly easy enough to pick up Joly’s finished puzzles and to stash away Musichetta’s books, but the same cannot be said for clearing away that stifling feeling growing in the air. He turns up some music and opens the window, just a few moments before hearing the door open and seeing Musichetta trudge in. “So how many babies did you haul into the world today?” he greets.

Musichetta manages a small grin as she holds up five fingers. “So I hear we’re heading for some real shit. Have you heard from Combeferre and Florence yet?”

“They were threatened by this man named Magnussen.”

“Yes, and he followed them all the way to Florence’s former apartment. They moved to their new place last night, so they’ve been spending most of today finishing their move.”

Bossuet has to sit down on hearing this bit of news. “Okay, so things got so much worse.”

“What _is_ going on, L’aigle?” Musichetta asks as she sits next to him. “Okay, it’s this case, there’s a lot of horrible people running around, and what I’ve looked up on Magnussen makes me want to bleach my brain, but I am sure there is more to it.”

Bossuet takes her hand, marvelling at how she’s kept her fingers so smooth despite all her work. “Magnussen showed up at the office today, basically to tell us to keep off the case,” he confesses. He swallows hard when he sees her eyes go wide. “I think you know where this is going.”

“You guys are going in,” Musichetta affirms. “It’s your job.”

“Yeah but that’s not really the problem, Chetta.” Bossuet holds her hand more tightly. “Magnussen’s MO, if you will, is to blackmail and bring down people. He’s going to try to get to you and Joly, and I don’t want that happening since you guys aren’t working at our office.”

Musichetta shakes her head. “Joly and I have been treating Clara Gardner. You can find our names on the records. Magnussen probably already knows this, so we’re already in.”

This revelation almost has Bossuet sick to his stomach. “Is there any way to deal with this?”

Musichetta is quiet for a moment. “All we can do is take care of Clara, all the way till she can testify. We’re in for as long as she’s in our care.  The rest...it’s up to you. Now is there anything that _we_ can do for you?”

This time it is Bossuet’s turn to go silent, more so when he feels Musichetta drape an arm around him. “You’re the best,” he murmurs.

“That’s why you boys are with me,” Musichetta points out before kissing the top of his head.

Bossuet cracks a smile before kissing her back, laughing when she pushes on his shoulders so she can go off to shower. In a few minutes Joly shows up and sets down several bags of dim sum on the dining table before flopping down next to Bossuet on the sofa. “I heard,” he simply says.

Bossuet nods. “Chetta and I talked.”

“She did the research, and I guess it’s clear,” Joly whispers. “You’re not going in alone.”

Bossuet kisses his cheek and shuts his eyes, eager to get a little rest. It’s just as well that when Joly turns on the TV he keeps the volume low, and that Musichetta is quiet too when she finally joins them on the sofa. In short order the rest of their friends arrive: first Grantaire and Jehan, then Gavroche, Azelma and Courfeyrac.  Combeferre, Florence, Enjolras, Eponine, and Feuilly turn up together, having hitched a ride in Enjolras’ car. Bahorel comes in soon after with Karen in tow, followed by Marguerite, Percy, Armand, and Andrew. The last to arrive are Marius, Cosette, and Mr. Fauchelevent. It’s the elderly gentleman’s presence that startles Bossuet, for shouldn’t a man of his age be allowed to live his years in peace instead of being thrown into this storm? Nevertheless the calm the older Fauchelevent brings becomes absolutely necessary what with the energy that fills the tiny apartment while everyone is having their fill of dinner and conversation about everything except the matter that has them all in this one place.

At length Enjolras sets down his bowl of soup and looks around the group assembled in the apartment. “I am sure that most, if not all of you, have heard why we’re all gathered here tonight,” he begins. “The big case that my office has been working on has just taken a new turn. It will involve investigating the politician Magnussen.”

Percy clucks his tongue. “That’s demmed dangerous. He fires wider than grapeshot.”

“Which is precisely why we have to be prepared. Magnussen’s methods involve both his opponents and his associates. He will certainly try to investigate the office, as well as everyone else who’s involved in the case in some way or another,” Enjolras continues more firmly. “Unfortunately this includes all of us here. We have to be prepared to face whatever attempts he will make at blackmail, investigations, or even intimidation.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “So should we all get our affairs in order, prepare to run, or something?”

“Not to that extent,” Enjolras replies. “This brings us to another point: not all of us should be directly involved in this point in the investigation. I would like that to be clear to all of us. The work of ferreting out his network will be complex and trying even without Magnussen’s opposition. There is no need for all of us to unnecessarily be in the line of his fire.”

“There is still the problem of helping Macky DeWitt and Clara Gardner take the witness stands. Someone has to support those kids too,” Combeferre points out.

“That’s what we do anyway in our group,” Marguerite chimes in. “Investigating Magnussen is out of bounds for us, but taking care of Macky and Clara is our work.” She nods to Andrew. “You can tell Suzanne not to worry.”

Andrew breathes a sigh of relief. “I was worried when Magnussen was mentioned. Thank you.”

 “We’re in for helping those kids too,” Musichetta adds, grabbing Joly’s hand and raising it in the air. “Physicians on board here.”

“Same here. That is something we can do, aside from keeping eyes and ears open,” Combeferre muses.

Florence nudges him. “You watch in the hospital, I’ll watch in the university.”

“What if he notices you?” Eponine asks. “I mean, he’s met you.”

Florence shrugs. “I’m the only one here who’s connected with the university, where he does a lot of his work. You need me there.”

Jehan clears his throat. “It’s not a direct connection, but I am sure I can pick up a thing or two from the university’s publishing group. I still work with them from time to time.” He slurps a noodle. “It wouldn’t hurt to look there.”

“Speaking of publishing, we do have a newsman here,” Gavroche says, pointing to Armand.

Armand shifts in his seat uncomfortably. “Of course I’ll give tips when the need arises, but I might be more useful keeping my colleagues from covering this case, for the time being.”

“That would be very much appreciated. Thank you St-Just,” Enjolras acknowledges.

Gavroche lets out an obnoxious burp. “You know what you need? Someone who’s a hand with computers and breaking into wiring.”

“In short, hacking?” Eponine asks.

“It’s not hacking if I get legitimate access and passwords,” Gavroche points out. “Besides you find it a chore, I say it’s a lark.”

“If it is access you need, I may be able to assist you there,” Mr. Fauchelevent says. “There are ways to look at official records without committing a transgression.”

‘ _Paralegal work,’_ Bossuet can’t help thinking. “Does that cover video footage?” he asks.

Mr. Fauchelevent nods. “Other records such as transactions are also important. Those can be requested easily from city halls, archives, and offices.”

Gavroche rolls his eyes. “That is no fun.”

“It will not do to cause further trouble,” Mr. Fauchelevent reminds him gently. “When that evidence is gathered, you’ll need me,” Karen chimes in.

“How does the SOCO get involved?” Florence asks.

“Because I’m the only one here with a badge and the authority to arrest someone with a warrant,” Karen replies smugly.  “I want to take this Magnussen fellow down badly; he’s whitewashed more stuff than you can believe, and I don’t like it.”

Bahorel whistles. “I can’t imagine you wanting to burn someone down that badly.”

“You should have seen her when she faced off against Bidault,” Eponine says, making a claw-like motion with her hands. “Fierce.”

 Mr. Fauchelevent cracks a smile but he sighs deeply as he looks at Enjolras. “All I ask is that somehow, all this attention should spare Fantine. I do not wish to have her deal unnecessarily with this Magnussen fellow.”

“Understood,” Enjolras says. He looks to Marius and Cosette. “You two have a child. It might be best for you two not to be too involved, even if we could use the help.”

Marius hesitates but Cosette squeezes his hand. “We have to step back. Elodie doesn’t need to worry about us too,” she tells him firmly.

“Hey that’s why I’m not in too, because of Darren,” Grantaire admits. “Don’t worry, Jehan and I talked about this already.”

“We decided that only one of us can be doing anything crazy at any point in time,” the poet explains. “It’s my turn this month.”

Azelma wipes her mouth. “We aren’t getting involved either.” Her eyes go wide when she sees Courfeyrac look down into his ramen at these words. “Maurice, did you _promise_ to take the case too?”

“It’s my work, Zel,” Courfeyrac says as he meets her eyes. “I’ll be careful---“

“You can be careful, but Magnussen won’t be,” Azelma retorts. “I can put up with this, but Alex can’t. She’s just a baby, she needs her dad.”

“I’m not going to be an absentee dad because of this, I promise,” Courfeyrac replies, turning red. “Besides, it will be over before you know it---“

“Not the damage. The things he does can last for a long time,” Azelma glares at Enjolras. “I can’t believe you’re letting him do this.”

“It’s not my place to curtail what someone is able and willing to do in these matters,” Enjolras points out. “It’s an informed risk.”

“You’re a parent, you should know these things!” Azelma seethes. She looks about to her sister, who is picking at her own bowl of ramen. “Eponine, are you also getting in on this too?”

“Not into everything; I have a job too,” Eponine replies quickly. “But I’m not going to just watch while Magnussen takes potshots at people.”

Azelma gapes at her. “I can’t believe you guys. Gav, fine, we can’t stop him. You and Auguste though are going to be parents. Maybe Magnussen will let up, but what about who he’s working with?” She gets to her feet, spilling ramen everywhere. “This is stupid.”

“Zel---“Courfeyrac begins as he sets his bowl aside and goes to her.

Azelma shakes her arm away from his grip. Her eyes are glistening as she looks at him. “Just because I opted out of the case, that doesn’t mean I’m immune or that Alex is safe. You should be able to understand that, Maurice.”

“I do understand,” Courfeyrac insists. “Everything.”

Azelma merely shakes her head before sitting down, but away from Courfeyrac this time. The silence in the room is far too palpable even for Bossuet’s liking, thus prompting him to cross the room and open the window. This elicits some snorts from Gavroche and Joly, just moments before a full on chuckle leaves Grantaire’s lips.  “Well played, L’aigle!” Musichetta cheers.

Enjolras sighs as he looks from Courfeyrac, then to Azelma, and lastly to Eponine. “We have to talk. Not here though.”

“Thank you for sparing us the family feud,” Feuilly remarks as he raises his soup bowl. “That’s going to be the first thing Magnussen is going to go for, so better fix that now than later.”  


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: The Root of Courage**

There are some problems that not even Marius’ resourcefulness can solve, such as stretching the already exhausted pockets of some of his more hard-up patients. ‘ _Time to see what else a clinical abstract can do,’_ he tells himself as he prints out that single page document detailing a particular gentleman’s case history and current therapeutic regimen. He’s lost count of how many of these papers he’d had to prepare over the years, all just to help cover the cost of a round of chemotherapy or an urgent surgical procedure.  Sometimes he has to write several versions of these for one patient, despite knowing that there is always a shortage of willing benefactors for long term care. All the same he hurries down to the Office for Social Interventions, hoping that there will be some recourse there.

 He knocks on the door and opens it a crack, just enough to catch sight of Eponine at her desk. “Eponine, do you have a moment to spare?” he asks by way of greeting.

“Sure. I’d like to have a look at that,” Eponine replies, gesturing to the paper he has in hand. She sighs when she catches sight of the patient named on the abstract. “Another operation for Mr. Li?”

“A shunt insertion. The neurosurgeons are scrubbing in tonight since it’s an emergency procedure,” Marius explains as he takes a seat.

Eponine nods as she finishes reading the abstract. “I guess you’ll need another benefactor, aside from the insurance paying for his medications and the grant that covered his first operation?”

“Can you find me one?”

“It’s my work. Of course I will. Not by tomorrow morning, but soon.”

“Thank you. You’re a real pro, Eponine,” Marius says, feeling more heartened at the confidence in her voice. He smiles on seeing the framed sonogram picture on her desk. “Does our hospital have a 4D ultrasound available?”

“No, but that sounds like an interesting idea.” Eponine rubs her midsection as she sits up straight and then tugs down her scrub top. “Just so you know, I’m taking my maternity leave from Christmas onwards. I’ll be asking Navet or another resident to fill in for me.”

“How long will you be away?”

“Until March 1.”

“That’s long,” Marius remarks. It will be the longest break Eponine will have in all her years of working at this hospital. It is then that he notices the jotter pad on his friend’s desk, filled with names of some big companies as well as their respective sociocivic projects. “Why are you looking up corporate social responsibility?” he wonders aloud.

“There’s one person who these companies work with,” Eponine replies as she picks up the jotter. “I just thought that looking up their CSR work and statements would help bring up some red flags like union issues or complaints filed by communities.” She bites her lip as she surveys the list. “A lot of this is whitewashing; it makes the companies look good and trendy, but it doesn’t change the fact that they keep their employees on a contractual basis or on less than minimum wages, or even that they get a lot of flak from the unions _and_ the Ministry of Labor.”

“So you’re looking for the person Magnussen likes?”

“I’m looking for Magnussen’s biggest headache---the one he has to stay up late to provide cover for because of bad business. I can’t imagine that man genuinely liking anyone.”

‘ _Just like my grandfather,’_ Marius catches himself thinking. “He does have friends.”

“A circle.” She points to some names on the list. “Bidault isn’t even a close friend. We’re talking about the businessmen Fouche, Monteil, Talbot, and Wray. Fouche is the nastiest of the crew.”

“Enjolras is asking you to do this?” Marius enquires.

“He’s _letting_ me do this,” Eponine corrects him. “It’s just Auguste and Bossuet investigating Magnussen while Courf handles the case versus Bidault. Someone has to be a lawyer in the trial.”

“Is Azelma fine with that?” he asks a little tentatively, remembering now the terse conversation during their recent ramen night.

“It was her idea.” She pats her stomach once again, as if trying to coax her child to calm down a little. “It’s the most that Courf can do, I guess, without bringing Zelma and Alex into trouble too.”

Marius shakes his head in disbelief. “You and Azelma are very different.”

“I shielded her and Gav, or at least I tried to.” Eponine bites her lip. “She almost died twice last year---first when she got into that road accident during the uprising, and then that time when she and Courf had a loft cave in on them when Dupond ran on the roof. She didn’t ask for any of that. On the other hand I know what I’m getting into.”

“Your kid though...”

“That’s why Auguste and I are trying to finish this case before Ian decides he wants to see daylight. I know that’s going to change everything.”

Marius whistles, knowing that there is no way he can change her opinion. “I’m glad you understand why Cosette and I can’t get too involved in this case.”

“Elodie should be your first priority. That girl has been through more than _all_ of us,” Eponine says. “How is she doing?”

“She’s back in school. I think she’ll cope up better with her math classes this year,” Marius reports more happily. “She’s more gifted with words and drawing though.”

“You might have a comic artist on your hands one day. Grantaire can teach her,” Eponine remarks.

“When she’s older,” Marius says adamantly. He’s pretty sure that Cosette would object to Elodie’s picking up on the more problematic parts of Grantaire’s sense of humor. He smiles sympathetically when Eponine shifts in her seat again. “How do you keep up?”

“Oh please. Go ask your mother-in-law how she held up when she was pregnant with Cosette. She told me _that_ story,” Eponine quips.  

“Speaking of mothers-in-law....” Marius trails off.

“Mine is fine. Still working on the divorce. Auguste and I aren’t telling her about this case for a few more days.” Eponine snatches up her phone as it begins beeping. “ER call. I’m the consultant on deck.”

Marius has just enough time to move his chair out of the way in order to allow Eponine to make a swift exit. ‘ _How does she do it?’_ he wonders as he hurries after her into the busy emergency room. He steels himself at the sight of a bed at the end of the hall, screened off by yellow curtains. The story of the patient lying there is certainly direr than most people are ready to see.

Eponine on the other hand quickly tracks down the resident manning the emergency room, and in a few moments she has the patient’s chart in hand as she marches to the screened area. She shakes her head on seeing the unconscious half-dressed crone lying on the bed. “Where was she found?”

“Two blocks away. She was brought in by some passersby,” a nurse drawls from where she’s dumping some soiled linen into a hamper. She gestures to a group of youngsters sitting nearby, obviously at a loss as to how to help. “They say she has no papers.”

“Are you sure?” Eponine asks them.

“Yes Doc. We asked and checked. Actually we’ve seen her about; her name is Miss Nellie and she used to run a bakery,” one of the youths reports. “Things have gone bad, her barber lover left her---“

“Long story short the guy next door was beating on her,” another young person chimes in. “We brought her to the clinic but since she’s not holding a card or a pension they wouldn’t see her there.”

Eponine swears under her breath before sitting by this woman’s bedside and helping her sit up, taking care not to jostle her bleeding limbs. “Miss Nellie, do you know where you are?” she asks.

The woman fights for enough air to fill her lungs. “The hospital,” she gasps. “I can’t stay, I don’t have any money.”

 _‘She’ll die if she doesn’t at least get first aid,’_ Marius realizes as he gets a quick look at this woman’s chart. “Why haven’t any of the orders been carried out yet?”

The nurse raises an eyebrow. “She doesn’t even have cash, Doctor Pontmercy.”

Marius’ jaw drops. “Cash or not, we have to at least give first aid. We’re a healthcare facility,” he argues.  “She’s a woman in need---“

“With no payment!” the nurse sputters. “No cash, no services.”

“This isn’t even service, this is dignity. You’ll be sure that Doctor Lamarque will hear of this,” Eponine chimes in even as she is already opening the valves on a nearby oxygen tank and affixing an oxygen mask in place. “At least this, you could have done!” she scolds as she helps her patient pull the mask’s strap over her dishevelled hair.  

The nurse blanches while the interns standing nearby exchange looks. “Doc we were waiting to be told to carry them out,” one of them pipes up.

“Your patient is having difficulty breathing. You do not have to wait to save a person’s _life_. If she was brought here unconscious, were you going to wait for permission to check on her, or to do CPR?” Eponine asks, indignation clear in each word. She looks to the resident in charge, who is desperately trying to make himself small. “ _Doctor_ Lille _,_ you must make it clear to the interns and nurses that lifesaving measures always come first. The billing office can wait.”

The resident nods quickly. “Sorry Doc E.”

‘ _The training office will hear about this,’_ Marius notes, not even wanting to think of what sanction Eponine will suggest in light of this incident. He carefully checks Nellie over and to his relief her breathing is easier and some color is returning to her face. “At least a chest x-ray for her,” he says as he gets a form that a more conscientious intern hands to him.

“I want to do basic blood work, at least a CBC. I’ll mark it down for financial aid,” Eponine adds as she writes on a prescription pad. Instead of handing the prescription to one of the interns or the resident, she goes to the nurse’s station herself. Although she doesn’t raise her voice, it’s clear from her agitated gestures and the way she leans on the counter that she is not about to take ‘no’ for an answer.

One of the interns glances from Eponine to Marius.  “Can we really do that?”

“Do what?” Marius asks confusedly.

“Go get the meds ourselves? Most consultants don’t,” the intern says more boldly.

“It’s not a habit,” Marius says in an undertone even as it dawns on him what Eponine has just done. ‘ _She needs the money as much as we do,’_ he almost protests but he knows he has to let the example stand, just for today.

The curious intern steps aside when Eponine returns with a tray of bandages and medication. “What are we going to do?”

“Basic first aid,” Eponine replies. She puts the tray at the foot of the bed and looks at her patient. “Miss Nellie we’ll clean those wounds a bit first and get you checked up a bit so we can know why you’re having a hard time breathing,” she explains.

Nellie nods resignedly. “Am I going to be admitted?”

“You need it,” Eponine says honestly. “If not here, we can transfer you. Is there anyone we can call?”

“Her neighbours. Maybe they can find her family,” the most outspoken of Nellie’s companions says.

In the meantime Marius rolls up his sleeves, ready to help even as Eponine begins to show the interns how to tend to Nellie’s injuries. Her injuries include one particularly large, festering gash on the big toe of her right foot. He frowns when one of the trainees gags all too evidently in disgust. “Please don’t do that,” he warns.

“But Doc---“

“Just don’t.” He feels a gnarled hand tug on his sleeve and he turns to meet Nellie’s much calmer gaze. “Do you need anything?” he asks her concernedly.

The woman’s smile is tired but there is something beatific about it. “Thank you, to you and her. You’re such a kind, nice boy.”

Marius manages to nod and stammer out a ‘you’re welcome’ even though these words are already picking at his mind. These are not new to him, but there is something about hearing them spoken by Nellie that makes his blood run cold with memory. Suddenly he sees shadows before him again, and he’s no longer standing in the emergency room but at a darker, dingier bedside. The word ‘ _Mama_ ’ rises to his lips, but no, Miss Nellie is a far cry from the pallid auburn-haired lady who still haunts Marius’ deepest memories.

He knows that he could not have been more than five years old then, when something had gotten into the water in the river that flowed by the town where he was born. There had been a reason that his father had paid dearly for their family to drink only bottled water, but it had been too late for his mother. ‘ _Papa did not want the money, but he wanted a way to bring Mama to the hospital,’_ Marius recalls now. He can still hear the outcry in that hamlet, of the wails of mourners mingling with the shouts of protestors. He can still see the arrogant manager who’d stepped out to give ‘compensation’ to the families who hadn’t been able to flee the poisoned land.

He can never forget the only occasion he ever saw his father kneel to beg for a car to bring his mother into town, and how he had received nothing but a beating for it. ‘ _It only made his own end quicker,’_ he thinks even as he feels something clammy stealing up between his ribs.

“Marius!” The light comes back into focus, allowing him to meet Eponine’s wide, dark eyes. “Are you okay? You look like you’re going to pitch over.”

“I’m fine,” Marius manages to say. He takes a deep breath but does not dare to meet the worried looks that the interns and Miss Nellie are giving him. “It’s been a long day.”

“Do you need anything? A drink, maybe I should call Cosette----“Eponine offers.

Marius shakes his head. “It’s good. I’ll go home straight now. Thanks for the help.” He hurries up to his office to grab his things and lock it up for the night, all the while taking care not to look at any newspapers or even the news feeds in the hallways and the hospital lobby. ‘ _He was in that town, and now he’s here in the city hounding my friends,’_ he realizes bleakly as he hurries to his car. Even though he turns up the music and the air conditioner, nothing can banish that sense of feeling small and trammelled in the gloom that has enveloped these recent days.

When he arrives home he finds Elodie perched on the fence, looking up at a tree through a pair of binoculars. She waves to him as he enters the gate. “Papa! There are fireflies out tonight!”

Marius stops in his tracks and looks to the old fig tree in their yard. Sue enough the tall branches are aglow with greenish-yellow as well as bluish lights. “There’s more than one group of them, Elodie. Look to the left,” he advises.

Elodie’s jaw drops as she trains the binoculars in the direction he has pointed out. “I knew you have super eyes, Papa!” She scrambles off the fence and springs into his arms. “You’re a superhero!”

“Elodie, I’m not that,” Marius protests as he adjusts his hold on the little girl who is clinging tightly to his neck. He looks at her perplexedly when she shakes her head. “Why do you think that?”

“Because you, Maman, and your friends do things that the parents of my friends can’t,” Elodie replies. “You’re a brain doctor and you fix people. Maman helps old people move. Grandfather knows everything, and Grandmother too, and that’s not everyone we know yet.”

 ‘ _I wish I could never disappoint her,’_ Marius thinks as he hugs her close before setting her back on her feet so they can walk into the house hand in hand. He sees her steady steps, so different from her limping a year ago, and he marvels anew how his life has come to this. ‘ _I left the hamlet with nothing and came to my grandfather practically a beggar. I never could have imagined this.’_

In the meantime Elodie carefully puts the binoculars down on the coffee table and clambers onto the sofa. “Grandfather is watching the news on his computer but not on TV. I think he’s worried that Grandmother or Maman might see something terrible.”

He smiles ruefully, marvelling once again at how perceptive his daughter is. “He just doesn’t want them to worry.”

“About what?” Elodie asks. “Are you all trying to stop another bad person again?”

Marius takes a deep breath, wishing for a moment that he could lie to her. Yet he knows that to do so would be recapitulating his own childhood, and of course Elodie deserves far better than that. ‘ _I won’t let Magnussen take you too,’_ he vows silently as he sits beside Elodie and hugs her close. “It’s mostly your uncles Enjolras and Bossuet, but we’re all helping a little bit. No one is going to hurt you.” 

Elodie nods trustingly. “What about Cousin Darren, Cousin Alex, and Doc Eponine’s baby? Will they be safe also?”

“They will.” Marius smoothes back Elodie’s hair, which has gotten out of her braids. “Where did you hear about that?”

“I just do. Grandfather is looking at videos again, Maman is always worried when she talks to Doc Eponine or the others, and you’re worried too,” Elodie explains. “It’s about this bad guy named Magnus, or something.”

“Magnussen,” Marius shakes his head sadly. “He’s not going near you, ever.”

“I know.” Elodie grins up at him. “You’re a brain doctor and you got my legs to listen to my brain again. Could you teach his brain to do something else?”

“Now that would solve a lot of our problems,” Marius laughs.

Elodie giggles before waving to Cosette, who is just emerging from the kitchen. “Maman, Papa is home!”  

Cosette’s smile of greeting quickly turns into a concerned look. “Did you have a rough day at work, Marius?” she asks as she sits next to him.

Marius nods before tilting up Cosette’s chin to kiss her lips gently. Even at this hour she smells of roses and rainwater, and there is something always comforting about that scent. “I’m glad to be home.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Cosette replies. “Come on, change out of your work clothes. I’ll get dinner ready in a few minutes.”

Marius slips his hand around hers by way of reply and she nods to him almost imperceptibly. He heads upstairs to their room, but before he can shut the door he already hears her footsteps in the hall. “What did you tell Elodie?” he asks curiously when he feels Cosette’s hands on his shoulders.

“Just to call Maman in the lanai,” Cosette replies before kissing him. “So how was your day?”

“Bad.” He draws her to sit next to him on the bed and places both his hands in hers. “Cosette, there’s something I really need to talk to you about.”

She nods understandingly. “Go on.”

Marius takes a deep breath and looks into her eyes, just to find the courage as well as the words.


	25. Chapter 25

****

**Chapter 25: Not for Lack of Trying**

There soon comes a morning when Eponine ends up frantically rummaging through her closet in search of something to wear to work. “Maybe this shirt will still fit,” she tells herself as she pulls on one of her more comfortable scrub tops, only to discover that she can barely tug the garment down past her waist. She groans as she takes off the shirt and tosses it onto a growing pile of blouses on the bed. ‘ _I should have known this was going to happen sooner rather than later,’_ she berates herself silently as she adjusts the drawstring of her pants.

She opens the closet door again and this time grabs one of Enjolras’ blue shirts. The material is crisp yet comfortable against her skin as she does up the buttons and smoothes the shirt down past her hips. It is just at that moment that she hears Enjolras enter their bedroom. “Auguste, I hope you don’t mind,” she says as she turns around to let him have a look.

Enjolras nearly drops the towel he’s using to dry his hair. A smile tugs at his lips as he surveys her from head to toe. “This is unusual.”

Eponine rolls her eyes at this classically deadpan reaction but there is no mistaking the appreciation in his gaze. “At least I didn’t get any of the red ones.” She throws her long white coat over the entire ensemble, but even _that_ now feels different on her body. “Oh fuck.”

He looks her over bemusedly “I don’t think it’s that bad.”

She crosses her arms. “It’s not that.”

“I don’t see what the problem is,” Enjolras points out as he sets the towel aside on a chair and starts rummaging for his own clothes. “Later today we can go shopping for clothes in the maternity section---“

“That’s just the thing,” Eponine retorts. She takes off the white coat and frowns at what she sees in the mirror; his shirt is far too loose on her but it still does not hide the swell of her belly. “It’s all going to be ‘oh look at that pregnant doc’ and ‘should you really be standing up that long?’ all the way till Ian gets here. It’s like I’m a freak show all of a sudden.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Some people don’t know their boundaries.”

“No one has to say or do anything,” Eponine points out. She can see it all again: the derisive looks that her fellow trainees or even she herself would give whenever a pregnant patient came into the clinics, and even the way her own mentors sometimes turned up their noses at the mere mention of maternity leave. ‘ _It’s what people think that sometimes has a way of sticking,’_ she tells herself as she gathers the shirt and pins it at the back just so she looks less like she’s wearing a sack. “I don’t expect you to understand what I mean,” she adds.

Enjolras gives her a quizzical look as he buckles his belt. “I would still like to know exactly what about this bothers you.” 

It is the earnestness in his tone that undoes her, and has her feeling the words tugging at her lips. “You know that back in medical school, some of the older docs used to say they didn’t like accepting girls into the program,” she finally says.

“Why is that?”

“They used to say that girls would waste their slots by quitting once they became pregnant, or that they were just going to medical school so they could find husbands.”

Enjolras scowls with disgust. “Now that is what’s terrible.”

“I know! I almost didn’t get accepted into my surgical residency either since at least one consultant was sure I’d get pregnant during my training.” She snorts on realizing how close she actually came to fulfilling that particular jibe. “I really did hear that during my interview.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “That sort of discrimination in the workplace is illegal.”  

“Yeah, but it sure doesn’t stop some people.” She pauses to tie back her hair. “What I’m trying to say is that it’s not that I hate being pregnant---it’s just that it’s _all_ that people like to see when I walk in.”

He shrugs by way of acknowledgment. “At least this is not a permanent condition.” 

Eponine gives him a withering look. “Thanks for the reassurance.”

His brow furrows with worry and confusion. “Did I say something wrong?”

“I knew you wouldn’t get it,” she mutters even as she blinks back that stinging feeling in her eyes. She turns away to put on her white coat. “We have to get ready for work.”

Enjolras lets out a deep breath, clearly now at a loss for words. He doesn’t say anything as he continues to get dressed, but then he suddenly goes over to her and plants a brief yet fiery kiss on her lips.  “Eponine, I know that I can’t understand this entirely.” His eyes are contrite when he meets her gaze. “All the same if there is something, anything I can do for you, then please let me know.”

Her breath catches at these words; the fact that he tries so hard always means far more to her than anyone else’s best work. She lets him know this by returning his kiss gently and touching her forehead to his when she pulls away. “Thank you, Auguste.”

A small smile crosses Enjolras’ face as he strokes her cheek. “I did mean it when I said I could go with you later on a shopping trip.”

“As much as I would want to drag you along so you can see how crazy this is for me, I think I’d best pass on your offer,” she tells him candidly as she takes his hand and slips her fingers between his. “Besides, what are the odds that you’ll get out earlier than I will today? Clara Gardner is taking the witness stand later, I heard?”

“Yes, she will be. I won’t be at that hearing though,” Enjolras replies with a bit of a smirk.

Eponine grins as she runs her free hand through his still damp curls. She knows already what will keep her partner occupied for the rest of the day. “Making another inquiry?’

 “Merely a courtesy call.” He steps away to get a deep red tie from his drawer. “I have two, actually---one at the Bureau of Securities, and another at the Court of Appeals. With a little luck, we’ll both have legitimate access to some records and archives.”

‘ _Then with that, an easy way in to stop Magnussen,’_ Eponine thinks as she helps him adjust the knot on his tie. “What are we waiting for then?” she quips as she gives the tie a last smart tug.

Enjolras gives her a longer, deeper kiss by way of a reply. “Let’s go then.”

She takes his hand and doesn’t let go as they make their way down to his car. As she slides into the passenger seat and buckles up, she feels a strong kick near her navel. “Easy there, baby,” she whispers. She laughs at her husband’s bemused grin. “It’s weird to have to stand straight while I’m operating and have him moving about.”

“Truthfully, I don’t know how you do it,” Enjolras remarks as he puts the key in the ignition. “So you’ll ask Azelma to accompany you later?” 

Eponine shakes her head. “She usually works on lesson plans after class hours, and anyway she has to take care of Alex. Besides in case you haven’t noticed, we don’t agree on anything to do with clothes. I’d have better luck having you along.”

“That bad?”

“I never could hand down anything to her; she’d toss it out right away.” The memory has Eponine rolling her eyes while she turns on the radio and cranks up the volume upon hearing a song she likes. She glances at Enjolras, who has both hands on the wheel, but one of his fingers is tapping out the beat of the music. She reaches over to squeeze his knee, prompting him to look down and clasp her hand briefly just before the stoplight up ahead turns green. The warmth of this brief touch is enough to ground her in the present again and she could laugh out loud at how incredulous and _wonderful_ this all is. ‘ _Ten years ago I didn’t deserve this, and last year I didn’t think I’d want this,’_ she realizes.

There is no time to muse further on this when she gets to her office: first there is a lecture to give to the interns rotating in the surgery department, which gets cut short by an urgent call to operate on a survivor of yet another hit and run incident. By the time she scrubs out it is already past one in the afternoon, and she’s absolutely famished. She rushes to the hospital cafeteria, and all the while she can hear people muttering ‘oops’ or hurriedly excusing themselves. ‘ _Am I that huge?’_ she wonders as she buys a large clubhouse sandwich and hurries back to her office. Much to her surprise there is someone already waiting at the door. “Ari, what are you doing here?”

 “I was just about to call you,” Ari says as she pockets her phone. “You’re blooming today, Eponine.”

“Thank you. You look pretty good too,” Eponine tells her mother-in-law. The older woman is dressed in a simple but elegant pantsuit today, and her hair is in a more relaxed ponytail instead of in its usual coif.  Though her face is still a little gaunt, her smile finally reaches her eyes. “How have you been?” Eponine asks more curiously as she searches her pockets for her keys.

“As good as can be expected, given that I’m almost not married,” Ari says, holding up her left hand to show the pale line of skin on her fourth finger. “I heard that Auguste isn’t at his office today?”

“He’s researching,” Eponine replies. She opens the door and steps in ahead of Ari just so she can have a few moments to clear her desk of the discharge summaries and case files that she’s been reviewing surreptitiously between surgeries and consultations. ‘ _Not like I can get much further without permissions from the courts,’_ she reminds herself. She will just have to wait to see what comes out of Enjolras’ errands for the day before she can proceed with her own inquiries.

In the meantime Ari has picked up the framed sonogram that Eponine keeps on her desk. “So am I getting a grandson or a granddaughter?”

“A grandson.” Eponine laughs when Ari’s eyes grow wide. “I know, I’m going to push out an adorable little terror into this world.”

Ari’s smile is wry as she sets down the picture. “At first I wanted a daughter. Claude had different...priorities. We were young, and as you would say, living it up.”

Eponine swallows hard, already feeling the air grow weighty. “So how was it when you learned you were having a son?”

“I was pretty fine with it. Claude was proud, or at least he said he was.” Ari takes a deep breath. “In those days, Claude was still climbing his way to the top of his firm. There were commitments he had to make, and I had to make some sacrifices. I chose the wrong thing to give up.”

Eponine bites her lip, knowing now just what Ari cannot voice out. “Hence no siblings.”

“That’s one thing.” Ari’s gaze grows far off.“Auguste called his nanny---her name was Dahlia---“Mommy”. I had just come back from a business trip with Claude and I heard him call her that. Claude sacked Dahlia. Auguste was inconsolable, and I didn’t know what to do. It was his call, not mine.”

It’s all that Eponine can do not to flinch. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It can’t turn back time. I guess all I can do is look forward,” Ari says, managing a smile. “So how is it going to be when your son is born? You’ll be downsizing your work hours?”

“Beyond maternity leave, I don’t know,” Eponine admits. “I’m not the only doctor who’s had a family while working long hours. I’ll just have to find my own way of doing things.”

 “I once also thought I could have it all.”

“I think it’s worth the challenge.”

Ari nods even as she rummages in her tote for what appears to be a bundle of cloth. “I was cleaning out stuff and I found this. It’s been handed down in my side of the family, mother to daughter.”

Eponine’s jaw drops as she unrolls the bundle, which turns out to be a soft knitted white blanket, trimmed with delicate tatted lace. “It’s beautiful.”

“I don’t know if Auguste would remember it,” Ari says more wistfully. “I wish I had more to give to you and your baby, but I’ve lost a lot of things over the years. This one, I made sure to keep.”

“Thank you.” Eponine carefully rolls up the blanket; it’s too fussy as far as she’s concerned but she’s determined to keep it safe. ‘ _If Maman had anything she wanted to give me and Zelma, she’s either forgotten about it or lost it,’_ she catches herself thinking. “So what are you going to do next?” she asks at length.

“You mean after the divorce is finalized?” Ari asks. “I might move to this city permanently. I am sure you can understand why.”

It’s all that Eponine can do to keep a straight face even as she tries to imagine Ari adjusting to the fast pace of life in the capital. “What about Claude?”

“He’ll probably leave the country,” Ari replies. “I’ve never met a man who needs it more.”

This time Eponine knows better than to pry into the matter, and so she simply nods. “I suppose I’ll see you soon then.”

“Do come by for dinner. Maybe a housewarming when you and Auguste get your new house?”

“I’ll let you know. Thanks for coming by.” Thankfully Ari steps out after a few minutes, leaving Eponine alone with the blanket still on her lap. She sighs as she pats her stomach, waiting to feel that kick under her palm. “I guess _not_ screwing up is the only way to go about this, Ian,” she whispers. “You deserve so much better than me.”


	26. Chapter 26

****

**Chapter 26: To See to One’s Own**

There are days when Cosette deems it necessary to let Marius sleep in, especially after a long night of seeing to one neurological emergency after another. This time, it is nearly two in the afternoon by the time she hears his step in the upstairs hallway while she is working in the lanai downstairs. She sets aside the ledger she’s been working on and then goes to the stairwell. “Marius, do you want anything?” she calls.

“Do we still have food?” he asks. He makes his appearance a few moments later, hair still damp and face still flushed from his quick shower. “I mean, I could cook it myself----“

“We have some penne. I’ll heat it up for you,” Cosette offers. She sighs on seeing that he does not have a white coat with him, signifying that whatever his errand is, it’s not to the hospital. She knows that he is not going to pick up their daughter from her classes; she is set to spend the day with a friend. “Where are you going?” she asks as he trails her to the kitchen.

“The library. I need to look up microfilm,” Marius says. “Do you want to come along?”

“I have some work to do,” Cosette replies, indicating the ledger she left in the next room.  She carefully retrieves the pasta from the fridge and puts it in the microwave. “What Magnussen did in your hometown was years ago. Is it still possible to file a case?”

Marius shakes his head. “At least it’s good for Enjolras and Bossuet to know more of Magnussen’s past dealings. It might help them find more recent information.”

“But why are you doing this? It can’t change the past.”  

“It’s what my parents would have done.”

 Cosette nods as she takes both of Marius’ hands. Had it been any other man who uttered these words, she would probably chalk it up to passing sentimentalism. Yet this is Marius, the son of a hero, and she is not about to deny him that. “As long as you come back safe to me. To us.”

Marius kisses her forehead and then both her cheeks. “You’re braver than I am, Cosette.”

‘ _Am I?’_ she wonders as she goes to retrieve the food from the microwave. She’s always prided herself on being prudent and cautious, on being the one who keeps the hearth so to speak. ‘ _I am home for Marius, Elodie, Maman and Papa,’_ she reminds herself as she and Marius share their late lunch. It is something that these four loves of her life need, far more than they let on.

Yet when Marius finally head out, Cosette can no longer pick up her ballpen to work on her ledger. “This isn’t enough,” she whispers as she looks at the pages full of numbers. She cringes at this seemingly selfish sentiment; why should she long for adventure and intrigue the way her friends do? Yet now, with her father doing his own surveillance and with Marius unearthing the past, she cannot deny that urge crawling through her skin. ‘ _What if protecting Elodie and Maman won’t be enough?’_ she wonders.

The ringing of her phone cuts through her reverie, and she could almost laugh on seeing the name on the screen. “Hello Ponine! What are you doing?” she asks her friend.

“Nothing yet,” Eponine replies. “I have a very, very big favor to ask.”

“Anything.”

“Could you _please_ go with me shopping later today? I don’t think that _both_ me and Ian can fit in my usual clothes anymore.”

Cosette has to cover her mouth before she can burst out laughing at the mental image of her friend trying to squeeze into a pair of jeans. “Sure. Will Azelma be joining us?”

“Do I want to start World War 3? Azelma is of the opinion that floral prints are mandatory on everything,” Eponine replies, not hiding her disdain.  

“I’ll ask my mom if she wants to come along,” Cosette laughs. “So what time do you want me to come by for you?”

“Will three-thirty be okay?” Eponine asks. “I have some case notes to type up and get out of the way.”

“That’s perfect. See you then,” Cosette says before hanging up. ‘ _In another life we’d be suburban soccer moms griping in grocery aisles and during school benefits,’_ she muses as she goes off to freshen up and send a message to Fantine to ask if she is free to join them. Somehow she’s always known, almost from the very first day she and Eponine became friends, that their lives would head anywhere but that direction. Yet now is no longer the time for ‘should have been’ or ‘what could have been’.

As she’s rummaging for her house keys, she hears a familiar step at the front door. “You’re home early, Papa,” she greets when she sees who’s just entered the house.

“I’m just picking up a box that Touissant forgot to bring to the office,” Mr. Fauchelevent replies affably. “Are you going somewhere? I can give you a lift.”

“Eponine and I are going shopping. We need my car,” Cosette replies. She checks her phone, only to find a message from Fantine saying that she is still stuck at another errand. “Do you and Maman need anything from the mall?”

“I do not think so,” he replies amiably.

“I may as well text Maman, just to be sure.” She swallows hard on seeing the flashdrive that her father carries on a lanyard around his neck; she has never seen the files there for herself but she has heard enough about them. “Papa, can I ask you something?” she finally says.

Mr. Fauchelevent smiles. “What is it about?”

Cosette chews on the inside of her cheek. “Why did you volunteer to help out with the investigation about Magnussen? It’s helpful, but it was surprising.” She pauses, seeing her father’s expression grow unreadable. “Please don’t be offended. I just really want to understand since I think you’re protecting Maman, and I guess me, Marius, and Elodie. But you----“

Mr. Fauchelevent sighs as he takes a seat. “Do you think I’m putting myself in danger, Cosette?”

“Yes. Magnussen has been in high places for _years_ now, and I know he’s doing something wrong...” Cosette trails off, almost balking at the sheer absurdity of what she is about to say. ‘ _Papa always has answers to everything, and there is nothing he can’t do about Magnussen,’_ she thinks. She looks at her father again. “Must it be you?”

The old man’s expression turns serious but there is no rancour in his eyes. “You might remember that last year, I created a new CCTV camera to help Mabeuf and his fellow senior doctors after that attack inside Saint-Michel Hospital. Since then, that system has been put in place all around the city. I’m one of the few people who have access to the archives and codes.”

“So will Gavroche, Enjolras, and the others, soon.”

“If they try to get in on their own, they will be faced with all sorts of accusations. With my help though, that trouble can be averted.”

It dawns on Cosette now what her father is trying to do. “You’re protecting them too.”

Mr. Fauchelevent smiles wryly. “It is the least I could do, aside from mentoring Gavroche. He is a brilliant young man but with much to learn.”

“Aren’t we all?” Cosette remarks. She takes a deep breath again. “Are you afraid?”

“Of what?”

“What if Magnussen comes after you?”

Mr. Fauchelevent presses his daughter’s hand. “I would like to believe we will not go without succour.”

The sight of the crucifix of her father’s rosary, always kept dangling from his coat pocket, is already an answer enough for Cosette. “Thank you Papa,” she says as she pockets her car keys. She mulls over this as she drives to Saint-Michel; it isn’t the first time she’s wondered about, or envied her father’s faith. ‘ _He calls it his lifeline, but it is different for me,’_ she decides.

She finds Eponine waiting at the convenience store near the hospital parking lot, talking animatedly on her phone once again. “If you keep that up, I will steal your shirts between now and January,” she quips. She waves to Cosette, only to burst out laughing thanks to whatever she hears on the other end of the line. “Oh wouldn’t you want to know? Now get back to work! Yeah, seven-thirty later.  You’re the best, Auguste. Bye!”  

Cosette chuckles as her friend ends her call. “What is Enjolras up to now?”

“A lot,” Eponine replies happily as she rolls up the sleeves of her oversized shirt. “We will finally make some good headway,” she adds more softly, but her tone is still brimming over with enthusiasm.

Cosette merely nods; this is no place to ask her friend about her casework. “Do you have any particular stores in mind to go through? It’s not just a case of getting whatever is loose enough to fit.”

“I looked up some maternity boutiques but to be honest, they are a little too pricey for my budget,” Eponine admits as she brings out her phone and scrolls over to a list. “I guess we’re stuck with the department stores.”

“They aren’t bad places to start,” Cosette reassures her. As they walk to her car she begins surreptitiously searching online for various stores that have sales and promos. ‘ _Thank heavens for knowing grandmothers,’_ she can’t help thinking as she also looks up the small shops and community stores run by the elderly ladies in touch with her parents’ foundation. “Have you ever thought of going to Avenue 54?” she asks as they get into the vehicle.

“Yeah, but more for things like a crib for the baby,” Eponine says. She bites her lip pensively. “I used to think it would be as easy as pushing this kid out and making sure he’s got a place to sleep, that he’s fed and healthy and all, but now my mind is going through _every_ possible detail!” 

“Maybe you and Enjolras should make a checklist?” Cosette offers. “Or do you two already have several versions of one?”

“Five. We have five revisions already,” Eponine replies more mirthfully. “Then there’s moving to our new house---we’re going to do it first week of October.”

“You won’t lack for help there.”

“Can you imagine the party that the guys will make out of it?”

Cosette laughs, unable to imagine a moving day proceeding any other way. In half an hour she and Eponine are at one of the larger department stores downtown, going through racks of billowing dresses and stretchy jeans.  Not surprisingly, Eponine seems reluctant to even pick out anything from among the selections. “Not your style, I get it?” Cosette asks kindly as Eponine holds up a blouson top, only to put it back on the shelf after a few moments.

“These tops will look frumpy on me,” Eponine gripes. She sighs as she picks up a pair of black leggings as well as a pair of blue jeans. “If they are all like this, I may as well go shopping in the _men’s_ section. I’ve heard that sometimes it’s a good idea.”

“It could work, but you’ll still need at least one good dress,” Cosette reminds her. She rolls her eyes at her friend’s petulant look. “Maman always said that there would always be times when she _wanted_ to look pretty.”

Eponine crosses her arms and scowls as she surveys the displayed dresses. “I’ll look like I’m wearing a sack. A colourful sack.”

“There are other dresses in other stores,” Cosette points out. Even after all these years her friend is still not patient with shopping. “You don’t want to wait till Christmas to get a good dress.”

“Fine, just one then,” Eponine concedes as she starts heading for the fitting rooms. “I’ll get something in green then.”

“We’ll have to look in the next store then,” Cosette says, noting the sickly colored dresses on the racks. As she waits for her friend’s turn to fit the clothes, she checks her phone for any new messages from her family. ‘ _All is well for now,’_ she decides when she finds the screen empty.

“Cosette, could you take a look at this?” Eponine calls from one of the fitting rooms. She is standing in front of the mirror, pulling up her shirt so she can survey the fit of the jeans she is trying on. “These don’t look so bad.”

“They’re pretty cute,” Cosette notes approvingly. “Versatile too.”

Eponine nods as she lets down the shirt and turns to get another look at her reflection. “I’m never going to be the same again, am I?”

“No, but most women say you won’t regret it. From my experience, I don’t,” Cosette replies. “Adoption isn’t the same as giving birth, so maybe I can’t really compare.”

Eponine shrugs. “But someday....”

“Maybe next year,” Cosette agrees. ‘ _Maybe next year once this entire mess with Magnussen is done,’_ she can’t help thinking. She ducks out to allow Eponine to change back into her usual clothes. Suddenly that time seems more far off than ever, and she feels that desperate urge to turn the days just to get to the end of it. She takes a deep breath even as she sees Eponine exit the dressing room. “Ponine?”

Eponine stops in her tracks. “Are you alright, Cosette?”

“Never been better,” Cosette replies. “Remember that ramen night, what I said about Marius and me not wanting to get too close to things since we’ve got a daughter?”

“Yeah. Why, what about it?”

“I take that back. She’s not safe if we just do nothing. You could say we’re now willing to help too.”   


	27. Chapter 27

****

**Chapter 27: For Lack of Negotiations**

“So now Clara Gardner is getting the justice she needs, and next up is Macky Dewitt. So what’s next?”

“Taking down Magnussen. Bidault is our way in.”

Karen frowns and shakes her head. “It won’t be as easy as that, Remy,” she tells Bahorel as she leans back on her pillows. “The only person who’s ever come close to unravelling him was Sherlock Holmes and even that went down pretty badly even with the Parliament.”  

Bahorel winces, remembering now this incident mentioned in some broadsheets several years ago.  This is no time for a cavalier smile or kissing away her words, even if the sight of her in the morning light is a temptation in itself. “At least we don’t have that policing us,” he finally says. “It’s a much freer country.”

“To some extent,” Karen concedes with a slight smile, at least till a phone starts beeping in the corner. She tosses a pillow at the offending gadget. “It’s not even seven in the morning.”

“That narrows down the possibilities to just five people,” Bahorel quips before kissing her and then rolling out of bed. He laughs when he sees Enjolras’ number on the screen. “Rising with the sun as always, Chief?”

“Only with the news,” Enjolras replies. His voice is clear, as if he has been up for some time already. “There will be a meeting at the fiscal’s office today, concerning the Bidault case. Courfeyrac won’t be attending since he’s accompanying Clara Gardner to the trial; today there may be a verdict.”

“So you’re going in his stead.”

“Yes. I take that you would also want to observe the proceedings?”  

“You only had to ask,” Bahorel drawls. ‘ _Just to see that bastard get his due,’_ he notes silently. Even now he still gets a bad taste in his mouth each time he thinks of the fate that almost befell Macky Dewitt. “What time is it going to be?”

“Ten in the morning. Do you have any pending business at the crime lab?” Enjolras asks.

“Not a blessed thing,” Bahorel replies. He grins as he looks back to where Karen has apparently dozed off again, smiling softly into her pillow. “Catch you later, Chief.”

“Do not be late,” Enjolras admonishes. “You won’t have to bring the evidence folder today.”

“Got it,” Bahorel says before hanging up the phone. He crawls back into bed and gives Karen a deep but languid kiss by way of apology. “Work calls, or rather, a cowardly fiscal,” he whispers.

She raises her head from the pillows and yawns as she pulls him to her. “Fiscal....meeting about what?”

“The Bidault case.”

“Give that piece of slime hell, won’t you?”

Bahorel laughs and kisses her again. “I’ll give him your regards.”

Karen pushes him away playfully. “Get back here again later and tell me about it, Remy.”

These words are enough to have Bahorel laughing and then kissing her again. “Now that I shall be punctual for,” he promises before going to get dressed. It is odd that the prospect of a ‘later’ should thrill him in this way; but perhaps this time the word holds far more than just another night tangled in sheets that always have a whiff of jasmine about them.

The spring in his step is evident even an hour later as he is walking up to the law office, but he stops in his tracks upon catching sight of Courfeyrac and Marius conferring in the hallway. “I must have overslept and missed some change. What is going on?” he greets.

Courfeyrac claps Marius’ shoulder. “An hour for courage.”

“I’ll explain it all when everyone arrives,” Marius says. There is none of his usual bluster and breeziness today; his tone is one of level resolve. He carries under his arm a long, thin yellow envelope.  “I do not know how it will help at this hour but I thought it would be best for you to know.”

“Any point against Magnussen is a good point,” Courfeyrac replies as they enter the office. By this time Enjolras, Feuilly, and Bossuet are conferring by the whiteboard, which is covered with snippets of news articles as well as small organizational charts of various corporations. “Pontmercy here has another piece of the puzzle,” he announces.

Feuilly and Bossuet exchange surprised looks while Enjolras nods slowly. “Does your family know that you are coming forward with this?”

“Cosette at the very least. We agreed to it,” Marius answers.

“But what about Elodie---“Feuilly begins.  

“I’m doing this for her.” Marius opens up the envelope and brings out several sheets of paper. On closer examination the sheets are actually photographs of a news article that appears to have been enlarged from a microfilm. “I don’t know if any of you remember this story; we were all still kids then. This case was mentioned in some of our civics classes.”

Enjolras peers closely at the photographs. “The Kingsley Corporation inadvertently had its factory waste spill out into several lakes and rivers,” he says. “Several villages were poisoned because of it. The health board was in an uproar, so were the environmental bureaus, but the case was forgotten after a settlement was offered to the families of the victims.”

“I was born in one of those villages. No one lives anymore in Vasily,” Marius continues. “I was spared from the poison since my parents were particularly careful with what _I_ ate and drank. They made do with everything else. My mother fell ill quickly. My father only wanted the means to bring her here to the city for help.”

“Magnussen was connected with the firm,” Courfeyrac chimes in.

“He was the one who drew up and offered the settlements. My father wanted none of it,” Marius looks down and shakes his head. “He was an honourable man.”

Bahorel feels all words grow thick in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Marius nods and manages a smile. “I lost my parents to this. I will not stand for him being able to do this to the rest of my family.”

“They’ll be safe. We’ll make sure of it,” Courfeyrac reassures him.

“This case was long ago. Will reopening it do any good?” Feuilly asks.

“That remains to be seen,” Enjolras replies as he now adds the photographs to the whiteboard. “Nonetheless it fits in with what we have already looked up concerning Magnussen’s dealing over the years. His handling of this case probably earned him the favor of a patron or two. I believe that the Kingsley Corporation was able to get most of the charges dropped, and what few remaining were thrown out on various technicalities.”

Bossuet shakes his head. “Magnussen, the wielder of secrets, also now keeps a secret?”

“It’s no secret to his patrons. These are favors he expects repayment for. What he does as a spin doctor, or negotiator, or whatever else puts them in his power. If he turns whistleblower, he can ruin anyone under the guise of being a good citizen,” Enjolras adds. He clasps Marius’ shoulder. “Thank you for this. It helps complete the account.”

“Maybe now my father’s soul can rest in peace.” Marius stands up straighter and gives his friends a more relieved smile. “I need to be at the clinic in a few minutes. Good luck to you guys.”

“You too,” Enjolras shakes Marius’ hand firmly, and remains standing before the whiteboard even after the doctor has already left. “We have an hour till the meeting,” he finally says before going to his desk and grabbing some papers, which he also attaches to the whiteboard. “There will be more to come once the other cases are reopened.”

“You mean the stuff that Eponine is looking up?” Courfeyrac asks.

Enjolras nods. “That, as well as some records that Gavroche dug up, with Mr. Fauchelevent’s help.”  

“You’re not going to get another cup of coffee, Chief?” Bossuet asks.

Enjolras merely smiles. “I’ll be fine. There is still something to prepare.”  

‘ _This is serious if he’s refusing coffee,’_ Bahorel realizes. In all the years he’s known Enjolras there have only been a handful of times he’s seen his friend forego this usual form of fortification. “Is he well?” he asks Courfeyrac discreetly.

“He’s so fired up that he doesn’t need the brew,” Courfeyrac replies in a gleeful undertone. “Bidault won’t know what hit him.”

Bahorel clucks his tongue. “What if he asks for some sort of plea bargain?”

“Not going to happen. Enjolras doesn’t get the last say on that, and besides Bidault isn’t the last stop on this bus,” Courfeyrac says even as he heads out the door with Feuilly in tow.  

Bahorel winces again before going to his own workspace and beginning to straighten it up; there is no way he can get much work done before they have to leave for the meeting. In the middle of all the detritus on his desk he finds a photo of his parents and his siblings, taken on a recent wedding anniversary. ‘ _Perhaps by the time we next meet, I’ll have better stories to tell,’_ he thinks. For a moment he gets a mental image of Karen accompanying him on one of these visits, but he shakes his head. Now is not the time for such whimsy.

Nevertheless he finds himself indulging in such fancy when he, Enjolras, and Bossuet are at the fiscal’s office. Waiting there among the spectators and children’s rights advocates are Percy Blakeney and Andrew Ffoulkes; the former tips his fedora by way of greeting when Enjolras nods to him. The official is a nervous man, almost laughably easy to ignore in this energetic crowd. In about ten minutes Bidault shows up, looking sullen in his orange prison jumper. The three lawyers accompanying him seem more encumbered than presentable with their suits and briefcases.

The fiscal looks about nervously at all the people assembled in the room. “We are here to discuss the option of a settlement----“he begins, only to be drowned out by outraged shouts and catcalls. He raises his hands in an attempt to call for order. “---a settlement in lieu of taking this to trial---“ he continues.

Bahorel grits his teeth at these words. “What makes you think you can just pay off people?” he snarls at Bidault and his attorneys.

“It is a far more civilized way of settling the matter instead of a trial,” Bidault’s lead counsel sneers. “We’re willing to give the Dewitt family twenty thousand dollars equivalent, as well as employment for their son, to any place and profession he chooses. This is to compensate for the trouble in his losing his opportunity for a job.”

Enjolras crosses his arms as he levels a cold stare at this lawyer. “The terms of that offer do not properly redress the charges that your client is facing, which are propositioning a _minor_ , illegal recruitment, possession of illegal drugs, and a misdemeanour in the form of assaulting a police officer. Furthermore the Dewitt family has signified that they are still pressing the charges and are not amenable to any sort of settlement.”

Percy steps forward. “Pardon me for speaking...out of turn....but it would be in your best interests to know that I informed them of this meeting, and they stand by their stance.”

“When did this happen?” Bossuet asks.

Percy holds up his phone. “Just now before you came in.

The fiscal grits his teeth. “Are you quite finished here, Mr. Blakeney?”

Percy makes a bow. “Indeed I am. It was only a little interruption.”

 The defense counsel exchange worried glances before looking Bidault, who is sweating and cringing with each imprecation the outraged crowd hurls at him. “Perhaps a reworking of the terms---“ the lead counsel begins before he is overpowered again by the yells of the indignant onlookers.

Enjolras shakes his head before looking to the now cringing fiscal. “Our client’s wishes are clear. There will not be a settlement.”

Bidault clears his throat and sits up straight. “Please reconsider. I have three children---the youngest is only seven. Think of what would happen to them if I am to stand trial. Think like a father.”

Enjolras looks at Bidault and puts his hands on the table. “I am a father as well, and I have certainly thought of what I too would do if it were my son who’d been in the diner that day. Considering that, all the more I stand by my client’s wishes. Good day to you.”

The fiscal’s face is grim as he looks first from the prosecutors to the defense. “If there is nothing more to discuss, then the arraignment will proceed as scheduled---“ he shouts over the din in the room.

“There will not be an arraignment.”

Bahorel clenches his fist even as he feels Percy and Andrew hold him back by his arms. Bossuet swears while Bidault nearly slumps with relief. Enjolras says nothing but his eyes are colder than steel as he faces Magnussen, who is standing at the other side of the desk.

 


	28. Chapter 28

****

**Chapter 28: There Are Always Bigger Fish**

The one word that comes to Enjolras’ mind when he sees Magnussen is _poison_ ; it is there in the newcomer’s eyes. ‘ _Nevertheless he has walked right into our sights,’_ he notes silently as he watches this newcomer slide into the office’s one remaining vacant seat. “What brings you here?” he asks.  

“A matter of my occupation,” Magnussen says, looking Enjolras over. “I had thought you would be intelligent enough to heed prudent advice.”

Bidault looks beseechingly at Magnussen. “They refused my offer!”

Magnussen holds up a hand for quiet, even as he shoots a warning glance in Bidault’s direction. “It would be best to leave any question of Mr. Bidault’s business practices to the proper authorities.” He sneers at Enjolras as he puts a hand on the folders piled up on the desk. “The Ministry will conduct its own inquiry, and implement the appropriate sanctions.”

It is all that Enjolras can do to keep a smirk from spreading across his face at this declaration. ‘ _Magnussen may as well have shown this entire room the whiteboard at the office,’_ he thinks; every lead he’s gotten from his network of friends only points to the Minister’s part as a protector and arbiter. “If the question were one of administrative charges only, then you would be perfectly within your jurisdiction,” Enjolras says calmly as he slides the papers away from Magnussen’s reach. “The charges being brought up against Mr. Bidault are criminal, and therefore must also be heard and decided on in a criminal trial.”

“Yes, in a court that knows nothing of economic matters.”

“Which I am sure you are privy to---among other matters particular to persons in Bidault’s situation.”

“There is no certainty that the courts will grant you your desired outcome,” Magnussen says, lacing his fingers together. “Oh I know of your reversals, Attorney, and those of your family. Your father’s business. Your wife’s records----thankfully she is bold about her indiscretions. You yourself had quite the learning curve during your first Port Town adventure.”  He smiles cruelly at Enjolras. “There are no saints in this room, no matter how handsomely they are styled.”

‘ _Those cases are on public record too,’_ Enjolras reminds himself even as he sees before his eyes again the darkened streets of that coastal city, the sneers of his first employers, and the disheartened looks of his clients from days gone by. The murmurs of the crowd draw ever nearer to his ears even as he looks from his friends’ worried faces to the triumphant visage of his adversary. “You are right that there are no saints; here there are only helpful men,” he says at length. “Your hand is in the public records and business annals. This has not been your first intervention.”

A startled flicker plays across Magnussen’s face. “I have done nothing save that which would be for the common good,” he says slowly. “You persist with your game, you will bring about economic ruin. Thousands, maybe millions will be forced out of gainful employment when businesses close. Our industries will be leaderless. Then what will your justice say to that?”

“Justice would not consider exploitative labor, even if voluntary, proper employment. No business condoning such practices could be considered an industry.” Enjolras sees Magnussen’s face twist further with pure venom even as the murmurs in the crowd grow louder. “This then goes beyond the limits of the administrative sanctions your Ministry and its bodies are bound to implement, and into the reach of other civil and legal authorities.”  

 Magnussen hisses as he gets to his feet. “You have as good as delivered yourself into my power.” He jams his hat on his head. “A pleasant day to you.”  

Enjolras grits his teeth as he watches his adversary leave amid a newfound hubbub of exclamations and queries from the crowd. “He will be back,” he tells the fiscal.

The fiscal blanches. “I would rather he not---“he begins before a sharp report and the crash of shattering glass pierce the air. “What the devil was that?”

Enjolras sprints to the door and throws it open, only to have the edge of the door scraping against shards from a broken window pane.  Magnussen lies a few feet away, face down in a growing pool of crimson. “Wait, don’t just run---“he warns even as Andrew Ffoulkes dashes towards the wounded man.

Andrew drops to his knees and presses two fingers to Magnussen’s neck. “He’s alive, just barely.”

Enjolras reaches for his phone but he already sees that Bossuet is calling up the emergency services even as Bahorel and some try to keep the crowd from stampeding out of the office. He catches a flicker at the corner of his eye and turns to see a figure levelling something on a neighboring rooftop. “Ffoulkes, get out of there!”

Andrew manages to hit the floor just before a bullet buries itself in the woodwork above his head, sending splinters all over the place. Enjolras and Percy immediately rush to drag him and an unconscious Magnussen behind a pillar at the far end of the hallway. “Get everyone clear and stay out of sight,” Percy growls. “Those are my orders.”

In the meantime Enjolras sees the sniper already vacating his post on the rooftop. “Everyone down the stairs, now,” he calls to the people remaining in the office before he gets up to pull the latch to the fire exit. He can hear Percy’s loud footsteps fast behind his as they dash down to the ground floor and towards a side entrance. “Did you see any accomplices?” he asks Percy.

The bigger man shakes his head. “That is the troublesome part.”

Enjolras grits his teeth as he prepares to open the side entrance, but it is at that precise moment he hears indignant shouts from the main street. He quickly spots a man dressed in a dark t-shirt and black jeans shoving his way through the crowd that is between him and an intersection several blocks away. Enjolras loses no time in opening the side door and racing out into the alley, putting him just in front of the fugitive. At the sight of him and Percy the gunman turns tail and bolts up another side street, turning over a large dumpster and a stall of fruit for good measure.

Percy taps Enjolras’ shoulder. “That street loops around this way,” he shouts, gesticulating to the right. “There’s a creek there----“

“I know this neighbourhood too, Blakeney,” Enjolras answers as he swiftly picks up a jagged piece of wood in the alley and continues to give chase. It is all he can do to keep the fleeing man in sight among these labyrinthine streets and passages so characteristic of this part of the city. By now they can hear the distant wail of police sirens and ambulances, but there is no sight of their gunman in any of the adjacent alleys. ‘ _Except for these footprints,’_ Enjolras notes as they come across some indentations in the mud. “I didn’t see him wear boots,” he mutters.

“He was moving fast---“ Percy begins just before a cry comes from an alley two paces away.  “Looks like he’s done for!”

Enjolras sprints over just in time to see their gunman collapse in the dirt outside a boarded up shop. He motions for Percy to stay a few paces away from the body before bringing out his phone. “Bahorel, we’ve got our gunman down. We’re in an alley by the creek,” he informs his friend.

“I’ve got you and Blakeney on GPS. The cops should be there in a few minutes,” Bahorel says, relief coloring his tone. “Should I send Karen and her SOCO team to you guys?”

“That would be a good idea,” Enjolras concurs. He frowns as he gets a glance at the face of their almost-assailant; the visage is decidedly non-descript, without scars or facial hair to provide any ready identification. ‘ _What he and Magnussen would have said, now we’ll never know,’_ he notes grimly even as he hears the police operatives approaching this scene.

Percy salutes to Karen as she walks into the alley. “It’s an unfortunate mess, Miss.”

“You’re telling me. High power bullet straight in; he didn’t stand a chance. You’re lucky that whoever did this just was after him, not you two,” Karen says, shaking her head as she surveys the body. She looks keenly at Enjolras. “Did you see who did _this_?”

“Not a sight or sound, Officer Hooper,” Enjolras replies. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be standing here.”

“That’s true,” Karen mutters. “You two had better clear out. I’ll catch up with you boys and Remy later.”

Enjolras and Percy are silent as they leave the alley and venture to where Bossuet and Bahorel are sitting on a stoop, watching as some correctional officers usher Bidault into a prison wagon. “Magnussen is being rushed to the hospital for surgery. There’s nothing more we can get out of that shark,” Bahorel reports.

“Aside from archives, but any fool could tell us that,” Bossuet adds gloomily. “Guess we’ve got to go after this one now too?”

“Certainly,” Enjolras replies. ‘ _The hand behind this may very well be a close ally,’_ he notes as he looks around the area, taking stock of the building where the sniper had positioned himself as well as the location of the fiscal’s office. “Someone who knows this place as well as we do.”

“With previous dealings,” Percy adds. “Deuce if he isn’t some legal personality too.”

“A valet. Some disgruntled former employee,” Bossuet suggests.

“Perhaps, but the timing?” Enjolras points out. He looks up as a news helicopter makes its flyby overhead. “Well it would appear the message has already gotten out.”

“It’s viral already, Chief,” Bossuet says, holding up his phone to show the news feed already scrolling there. “Not just Breaking News but the comments section too.”

Enjolras checks his own phone and scowls at the wild and even absurd commentary there. “To what hospital did they take Magnussen to?”

“The Royal Hospital. Apparently it’s closer, and there’s a better neurosurgery team on duty,” Bahorel replies. “Besides, I don’t think poor Pontmercy would want to see that man even in recovery.”

Enjolras can only shake his head despite the weak laughter this joke elicits. “We’ll have to meet later, back at the law office.” He looks down just in time to see his phone beep with an incoming voicemail. “There is some serious narrowing down we have to do.”

 


	29. Chapter 29

****

**Chapter 29: A View for Worms**

Despite being known for his unusual candour and gregariousness, Gavroche sometimes still prefers to think of himself as a lone wolf. “Say what they will, there’s no splitting to be had on a solo job,” he tells himself as he opens up another window on his laptop screen during a lull in his workday. It’s an odd train of thought for someone who works on a team of computer engineers; however Gavroche has lived too long with uncertainty to allow anyone’s hands but his own to have a hold of his destiny.

He figures this is why Mr. Fauchelevent has gone through the effort of teaching him the proper ways of accessing records instead of doing the job all by himself or relegating him to the role of mere assistant. At the very least this has given him more reason to thumb his nose at the intricacies of politics and big business. ‘ _Why this is poor spider silk,’_ he notes derisively as he carefully types in passwords and keywords that bring up files for him in a flash.

Suddenly the workroom door swings open and clangs shut noisily. “Hey there Thenardier, could you get a livestream going? There’s some sort of hairball going on downtown,” one of the technicians drawls. “Some sniper is on a roof.”

Gavroche quickly opens up another window. “On what channel?” he asks even as he surreptitiously begins typing up another series of passwords. He waits as a whole series of traffic camera displays flash on the screen, and he zeroes in on a screen that shows a figure muffled with a black mask being pursued by two smartly dressed men. “Looks like someone is stuck with the worm’s eye view again,” he chuckles as he opens up another camera feed on another intersection.

However instead of a fugitive rushing out of an alley, Gavroche sees the barrel of a rifle emerging from a window, followed by the shadow of a form collapsing in the mud.  With a few keystrokes Gavroche overrides the traffic camera’s feed, forcing it to zoom in on a doorway. In a few moments he sees another man emerge, also appropriately masked. This is his impetus to zoom out, just to catch sight of this gunman’s nondescript blue getaway car, and more importantly, the license plate. “Gotcha,” he whispers gleefully as he presses a command to capture the footage, and another to save it to the external hard drive he always keeps tucked by his elbow.

By this time the technicians are knocking on his cubicle. “Where’s the live feed, kiddo?” one of the older engineers asks impatiently.

Gavroche simply holds out his hand and someone hands him a phone. In a few moments he keys in to a video of a reporter interviewing the shaken bystanders at the scene. “Knock yourselves out,” he says before beginning to pack up his equipment.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” another one of his workmates chimes in.

“Troubleshooting,” Gavroche calls over his shoulder as he shoulders his bag, taking care to put the external hard drive in the inside pocket of his jacket. He hurries downstairs to retrieve his new motorcycle in the parking lot before setting out for the 5th police precinct’s crime laboratory.

True to form he finds several vehicles, including his brother-in-law’s car, already parked outside the police station. Gavroche scampers past the officer at the foyer and follows the signs upstairs to the laboratory. He knocks thrice on the door. “News Delivery!” he calls, feigning a scratchy voice.

The door flies open to reveal Karen Hooper, already wearing a laboratory coat over her day uniform. “Gavroche? What are you doing here?”

Gavroche grins as he holds up the hard drive. “A gift for the fair lady.”

“Which is?”

“Traffic camera footage. I know who pinched your sniper.”

“Sniper---you don’t say?”

“It’s on the news everywhere by now.”

Karen takes the device cautiously. “Does Mr. Fauchelevent know you do this?”

“I’m everyone’s free agent,” Gavroche replies, making a deep bow. “Where are the big lugs?”

“If you mean Remy and the boys, they’re fine,” Karen says. “The sniper was after Magnussen. He’s in critical condition now.”

“That’s all there is to him?” Gavroche quips. “How can he sing with his box blown in like that?”

“We’ll find out,” Karen replies, indicating her lab coat. “If you just wait, I’ll copy the file and give back your hard drive right away.” She retreats into the lab and shuts the door, but all the same Gavroche still hears her cuss and whine a little bit about the size of the video on question. She emerges a few minutes later and hands back the hard drive. “Thank you. This will really help everyone in the case.”

“You should probably ask Mr. Fauchelevent to install more of those things, just for you coppers,” Gavroche points out.

Karen shrugs. “Won’t do; there are some rules with surveillance.” She indicates the helmet that Gavroche has with him. “Please be careful.”

Gavroche makes a jaunty salute before heading back outside. It becomes nigh impossible to keep at his work for the rest of the day, not when he can feel the thrill of the chase in his veins. ‘ _This is even better than outwitting Montparnasse,’_ he tells himself. That is, until he gets a text message from Eponine asking him in no uncertain terms to call her up right away.

She answers on the first ring. “Gav! We heard from Karen that you were the one who got the video from the traffic camera,” she greets. “How?”

“A little bird gave it to me---come on Ponine, it was through the codes that Mr. Fauchelevent gave me,” Gavroche says. “I can’t be traced, I promise.”

“You sure?” Eponine asks nervously. “Because now there are names to the faces.”

“I’m not scared of that sort of swell---“Gavroche whispers, seeing now that his workmates are looking at him. He hunkers down in his cubicle so as not to be heard. “So who is it?”

“The guy who died is from a gang---that old _Difunto_ gang that we were chasing down. He’s gotten hired.” Eponine replies. “You’d better be sure that you’re safe, Gav, since the car you got a photo of is registered with a security agency, the Condors---“

Gavroche quickly does a search and shakes his head at the names and links he finds. “Magnussen’s entire circle, those businessmen you and Enjolras have been tracking.”

“Obviously,” Eponine says. “The question is, which one?”

Before Gavroche can make any conjecture, he peers out the window of his office and sees a blue car cruising by the parking lot. ‘ _Too many birds of the same color,’_ he thinks. “Ponine, you and Enjolras better not go out tonight,” he finally says.

“Yep, we’re staying in,” Eponine replies. “You stay safe, Gav. Call us in the morning.”

“If you’re awake by then!” Gavroche jokes before hanging up. All the same he’s going to have to change his route home tonight.


	30. Chapter 30

****

**Chapter 30: Lost and Found**

There are days when Eponine doesn’t want to wake, for fear of finding that everything is nothing more than a dream. ‘ _Girls like you don’t deserve good things,’_ that nagging voice tells her, keeping her adrift in the dark. ‘ _There is nothing for the likes of you.’_

She always fights back. She’s not that girl anymore. 

She opens her eyes and gasps for breath as she looks around the sunlit bedroom. “I’m here,” she whispers, and even then the sound of her own voice is astonishing to her. No she cannot dream all of this: the sunlight peeking through the tricolored curtains, her white coat tossed onto a chair, the books and papers piled up on a bedside table, the coziness of a rumpled blanket, and of course the warmth of a callused hand resting on the swell of her rounded belly. She buries her face in her pillow to muffle a laugh even though she feels tears springing to her eyes. Never has reality felt better. 

It’s only a moment later that she feels lips brush against the back of her neck. “Eponine, are you okay?” Enjolras asks. His voice is still a little raspy from sleep, and the very sound of it sends an accustomed warmth through Eponine’s cheeks. It gets better when he shifts and leans closer in an attempt to make eye contact. “Another nightmare?” 

“Not quite,” she replies before turning to face him properly. She’d scoot up under his chin, just the way she likes to so she can feel the rise and fall of his chest, but lately that’s becoming more difficult to do. So she settles for moving up so that she is face to face with him, so close that their noses could just about touch. “Not sure if there’s a term for a bad daydream.” 

“This early in the morning?” Enjolras asks. He scowls when some of his hair gets in his eyes, more so when she pushes it away and kisses him teasingly. “Maybe I should get a haircut“

Eponine laughs as she brings her hand lower to run over his broad shoulders, then down to his chest. Her breath catches as her fingertips come across the first of his scars; these are marks she knows too well thanks to the circumstances of their first meeting. She traces the lines slowly, finding now that they are not as raised and bumpy as she thought they were. “He’s going to be born pretty much two years to the day of  _that_  rally,” she muses even as she feels him also running his hand down her midsection. 

Enjolras’ brow furrows as he tries to work out the date, and when he does he moves to clasp her hand. “Not on that exact day though.” 

“You can’t be sure of that. If he does arrive on that day, you’ll never forget it.” The very fact that she is not speaking merely of dreams but of actual _memories_  is so overwhelming, prompting her to slip her fingers between his. She knows now she’ll do anything to hold on to this: the fire in his eyes when he looks at her, the quiet of this first morning in their new home, and most of all, the rhythm of her own breathing just in time with his. “If this is a dream, this time it’s a good one.” 

Enjolras looks at her bemusedly. “Well if I’m still in the hospital, hooked up to a morphine drip—” 

“A morphine  _pump_. You pulled that out yourself,” she chides, swatting his arm for emphasis. “You still top my list for worst patient ever.” 

“Am I ever going to make up for that?” he asks, feigning an affronted look. 

She kisses him again, drawing it out when she feels his hand moving closer to her hip. “Go on.” 

Enjolras smiles and presses his lips to the crook of her shoulder, then makes a slow trail of kisses over her neck, up to her chin, before finally lingering against her mouth. His very touch sends heat through her body, but it’s nothing beside the openness and joy in his gaze as he rests his forehead against hers. “Eponine, I love you. Will that suffice?”

Eponine nods before kissing him once more. “Always.” Just as she pulls him closer to further show the point the distant ring of the doorbell cuts through the calm. “Do we have to get that _now_?”

He glances at the bedside clock. “It’s not even seven am. This is probably an emergency.” He reluctantly slips out of bed and pulls on a t-shirt. “I’ll be back.”

“Give them hell,” she mutters, nudging him playfully with her foot. She sighs contentedly as she lies back and puts a hand on her belly, following every kick and wriggle she can feel there. “Did we wake you up, Ian?” she giggles when she feels a strong kick under her palm. “Then again turnabout is going to be fair play in a few months since I know you won’t give me and your daddy much sleep.”

A moment later Enjolras reappears in the bedroom doorway. “Tess is downstairs. She needs help.”

Eponine quickly sits up in bed. “As in medical help?”

“A little, but she’s not here for that.”

“How did she find this address? We just got here!”

Enjolras shrugs. “Did you tell Cecily or Mother Asuncion we’d be moving?”

Eponine nods, remembering now Tess’ habit of eavesdropping. She quickly throws on her clothes and hurries down to the living room, to where Tess already has her feet up on the sofa. She pauses to take stock of the girl’s torn t-shirt and leggings, as well as the cuts and scrapes on her arms. “Rough night?”

Tess grins and makes a fist. “I got them good on my way in.”

Enjolras sets down on the coffee table a glass of water and a box filled with bandages and antiseptic. “Shouldn’t you be at the halfway house?”

“Miss Cecily and Mother Asuncion wouldn’t know what to do with the ones who did this,” Tess replies, gesturing to her ripped clothing. “I’ve got something to tell you about a guy I knew, the one who put a bullet through Magnussen’s head.”

“You’re talking about the shooter who was with the _Difunto_ gang?” Eponine clarifies as she opens up the box to begin cleaning up Tess’ wounds.  

“His name was Johannes,” Tess replies, crossing her legs. “I guess you folks could say I knew him, at least till the gang moved out of the neighbourhood to bigger jobs, He tried to get me to come with him, but since he wouldn’t say where, I didn’t budge.”

Enjolras’ eyes narrow with interest. “What was the job offer?”

“Some grabbing, some smashing, and some....” Tess mimes pointing a gun at herself. “Johannes had good aim; he stole an air gun once and could pick out windows at the end of the alley. Made a trick of it at times. It wasn’t long till he got noticed, and one of the leaders of the gang---not sure which one---gave his name to this guy who said he was working in security.”

“Did you get his name at least?” Eponine asks.

Tess shrugs and winces when Eponine dabs some antiseptic on a cut on her elbow. “Johannes called him Mr. Deeds when I was around. Johannes and I were down by the water for drinks, Mr. Deeds showed up. Asked if I was in on the job but since I didn’t know jackshit I said no. Johannes told me to go home.”

Enjolras grits his teeth. “When was this?”

Tess counts on her fingers. “Last April. So are you going to ask me to pick his mug from the pictures?”

“Yes, if it comes to that,” Enjolras replies.

“Auguste, no. Can’t you see that Tess is already roughed up from this?” Eponine snaps.

“She’s the one coming forward with the information. It’s not as if either of us asked her to be here,” Enjolras points out.

“She’s still a child!”

“I may as well, Doc. Mr. Deeds knows I saw him, and anyway I think I’d get worse than this if I ever step back out there.” Tess gives Eponine a challenging look. “Besides, I’m seventeen. You were seventeen too, when you got the heck out so as they all say.”

“To go to school!”

“It’s still getting out. I want that chance too.”

“I would have wanted it differently for you,” Eponine mutters. She looks pointedly at her partner. “We have to at least arrange for witness protection.”

“Something better,” Enjolras remarks thoughtfully. He looks straight at Tess. “Eponine is right about one thing: you’re still underage. We’ll have to clear everything with Cecily since she’s your social worker, especially if you’ll have to make any official statements in the investigation.”

Tess whistles. “That’s lots of big words.”

“Welcome to the legal world,” Eponine remarks dryly while she finishes bandaging the last of Tess’ injuries. “How did you find this house?”

“I knew you’d be moving, you just didn’t say when. I asked at your old place, the concierge told me you were in the neighbourhood. I just looked for the house with the red car,” Tess explains. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I did last night?”

“We were getting to that,” Enjolras replies.

“I was staying out late for a school project, and when I was walking by the bus stop near Avenue 54 I saw Mr. Deeds’ car.” An unrepentant smile spreads over Tess’ face. “I know he has something to do with what happened to Johannes. I had a key in hand....”

Eponine rolls her eyes, knowing where this story is going. “You were lucky. I don’t think this Mr. Deeds sounds like an easy customer.”

“It wasn’t his guys after me, it was his boss,” Tess replies with a smirk. “Some big CEO sort of fellow, at least he looked it. Mr. Deeds was one of this other guy’s bodyguards.”

‘ _It’s something,’_ Eponine realizes, knowing that it will not be difficult to corroborate Tess’ story with traffic camera footage or even eyewitness testimonies. She goes back upstairs to retrieve her phone, and isn’t surprised to find a frantic text message there from Cecily. To make matters simpler she places a call. “Good morning Cecily. Got good news for you,” she greets.

“Where’s Tess?” Cecily asks quickly. “She didn’t come home last night.”

“My living room. She’s had some misadventure,” Eponine replies as she goes to take a peek at the bedroom that she and Enjorlas have fitted up for their son’s arrival. As they agreed, this room has a green motif with white accents, and it is echoed on the crib and dressing table. A cushy armchair stands by the window. A mobile of fish and various ocean creatures hangs over the crib. ‘ _It will do till Ian gets to fill it with toys,’_ she thinks as she heads back downstairs. She nods to Enjolras, who is also already checking something on his phone. “Auguste needs a word with you though about Tess’ situation. It’s quite complicated.”

“Please don’t tell me she needs to be bailed out!” Cecily groans.

“It’s not that,” Eponine says, motioning for Enjolras to take the phone. “Good luck,” she whispers as she hands off the gadget to him.

Enjolras gives her a confident smile before going to the stairwell, where the signal reception is strongest. “Hello Miss Cecily. I know what you thought it might be, but it’s not that. Tess happened to come across something important that may be connected with a case---“

In the meantime Eponine takes the opportunity to slip to the kitchen, hoping to get started on breakfast. Although she spent the previous days unpacking and arranging this place, she still cannot help but marvel at how much _space_ she suddenly has all around her. ‘ _Like it’s waiting to be filled with something,’_ she notes as she goes through the still mostly empty cupboards.

“Doc, how could you do it?” Tess’ voice suddenly chimes in. Eponine turns to see the teenager already seated at the counter, watching her intently. “I can’t believe you still want to push out a kid into this messed up world.”

“If every generation had that line of thought, our species would be extinct,” Eponine quips.

Tess shrugs. “Wouldn’t be such a bad thing, if you ask some people.” She wipes at a dust speck. “How would you have wanted it for me?”

“At least to have some more time to make your choices,” Eponine replies. “Not like this, having to run and maybe not go back to the neighbourhood just because you saw something.”

‘Wasn’t it the same for you when your parents got thrown in the slammer?” Tess asks acridly. “You never ran around with your old gang again, whoever they were.”

“Because I knew it wasn’t what I wanted. I could have very well gone back, and maybe I might have if I didn’t have my siblings to worry about.” Eponine pauses as she feels her child kick again and she rubs her belly. “It wasn’t a boy who got me out of the halfway house. It wasn’t school. It was Azelma and Gavroche. I had to find my way back to them.  Getting something right in my life was the only way I could do it.”

Tess grins triumphantly. “I win my bet with Aimee then.” She turns as Enjolras enters the kitchen. “I bet Miss Cecily is gonna string up my guts,” she drawls.

“She’s concerned, but she’s relieved you’re safe,” Enjolras answers. “I explained the situation to Cecily and she said she wants to meet with us and the guys about this, later today. For now though she said that Tess can accompany us to the law office, so she can look at the photo line-up we have there.”

‘ _Good thing it’s a Saturday and Tess won’t be missing any classes,’_ Eponine notes. “Then it’s back to the halfway house---“

Tess shakes her head. “No. The jerks followed me around, they can follow me there. I don’t want them getting near the other girls. Can’t you get me a room someplace?”

“That will not do,” Enjolras says flatly. “We can ask Miss Cecily---“

“Auguste, we do have an extra room upstairs,” Eponine laughs at the surprised look that crosses Enjolras’ face. “We have to put that to good use.”

“It will do, at least till a more feasible arrangement can be made,” Enjolras concurs.

“Are you sure you two can take me on?” Tess laughs.

“I’d feel a lot better if I knew where you were,” Eponine replies.

Tess snorts as she grabs a bowl and fills it almost to the brim with cereal. “Yes _Mom_.”

Eponine’s jaw drops at this but one look at Enjolras’ amused smirk at this exchange is enough to set her off laughing. It’s enough to dispel the shadows in her mind, all the way till she, Enjolras, and Tess are driving down to the law office. What should only be a quarter of an hour’s drive suddenly turns into thirty minutes of waiting in traffic. “Has there been some accident?” she wonders aloud.

“More like _incident,’_ Enjolras points out, motioning to where a police car is driving by. His hands tighten on the steering wheel when he sees the car turn in the same direction they are headed. “That does not bode well.”

Eponine bites her lip when she sees still more squad cars up ahead, all the way till the curb outside the building. “Stay in the car,” she tells Tess once they find a parking space nearly a block away. From where she is standing she can already see the yellow tape barring entrance to the front lobby. ‘ _I don’t see a corpse or anything....’_ she thinks.

Enjolras grabs her arm just as a police officer walks up to them/ “Good morning Officer. Would you mind telling us what’s happening here?” he greets cordially.

“This is a crime scene, Attorney Enjolras,” the officer drawls, holding out his badge by way of identification. “Your office has been broken into. Everything is a mess, and all your papers are gone.”


	31. Chapter 31

****

**Chapter 31: The Running Men**

‘ _Of course this would be a wave building up before it breaks on the shore,’_ Enjolras notes as he finally steps into the shambles of the law office. For once, Bossuet’s cubicle, the one nearest the door, is in better shape than Enjolras’ own workspace; the furniture may be turned over and the drawers pulled out in Bossuet’s side of the room, but nothing is left standing on Enjolras’ side at the far end. Amid the splinters and twisted metal lying about, Enjolras finds broken glass surrounding the framed photos he once kept on his desk. Two of the pictures, namely one of Eponine as well as the latest sonogram of little Ian, have been torn down the center. Enjolras discreetly pockets the fragments even as he hears footsteps in the doorway. “This is it.”

Eponine shakes her head as she carefully sidesteps some broken glass. “I sent Tess on to get some coffee for herself while I talked to the police. They’re pretty sure they can tie this in to what happened to Magnussen.”

“As logical as it may seem, that connection will need a lot more evidence to hold up to a proper investigation.” He buries his face in her hair for a moment, just to take in the comforting lavender scent of her shampoo. “I already called Courf, Feuilly, Bahorel, and Bossuet to come here, but it will be a while till we can get this place cleaned up. Tess might have to sit tight for some time.”

 “I have that covered, actually,” Eponine says lightly as she chucks his chin. “I have to get to Saint Michel in a little while; I’m on call today since there is a fun run going on today and we always need a trauma team on standby. Tess can hang out at my office or at the cafeteria.”

He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. “Do you need me to drop you two off?”

“Oh we’ll be fine. You won’t get back here in time to meet the guys if you drive us.” She kisses his cheek.  “Let me know when you’re done here, or if I can be of help.”

“Of course,” Enjolras says, squeezing her hand just to let her know he appreciates this gesture of support. He can think of only a few other people with that same terrifyingly fierce sense of loyalty.   ‘ _There’s no use in asking her to take a step back from this matter; she’d never allow it,’_ he thinks as he listens to her footsteps heading towards the elevator.

It isn’t long till he hears the loud chatter that is so characteristic of his friends making an entrance. Feuilly swears as he surveys the pile of broken furniture and torn paper that used to be his workspace. “I am surprised they didn’t burn down this entire place.”

“They’re smart enough to at least avoid charges of arson,” Bahorel growls. He kicks aside a broken chair. “The bastards knew what they were about; they even covered the security cameras.”

“Not the traffic cameras though. I am sure that Gavroche and Mr. Fauchelevent can pull _something_ from those,” Bossuet points out philosophically. He whistles as a shard of metal nearly buries itself in his thumb. “All we need is a license plate of a getaway car.”

“That is if they even used one,” Feuilly points out. “I know a bunch of goons who would rather trust their feet than motorized transport. It gets them into more spaces.”

“That’s true.” Enjolras picks up the bits of string and paper that had once covered his corkboard. He tugs at the tangle between his fingers for a moment before discarding it all in one of the trash bags that Courfeyrac has brought. “Have you figured out if anything else is missing?”

Feuilly shrugs. “All our papers. We had way too many controversial files here.”

“We still do,” Enjolras says as he holds out his hands. “We have backups.”

“Of our own previous cases, yes. We keep a digital archive—that was your idea,” Bahorel replies. “But that’s probably not what these jokers were after,”

A slight smile tugs at Enjolras’ lips. “You’re right. All the files that have to do with this present case are public records. We always request for _copies_ , not originals. The originals are surely still extant at the offices concerned such as at the government offices, the courthouses, and even the university where Florence and Jehan are based.”

“Isn’t that mostly because of a matter of policy and propriety?” Bahorel asks.

“Well now it’s served another practical purpose,” Enjolras answers nonchalantly.

Courfeyrac bursts out laughing. “Do you mean to say you’ve pretty much cached information _everywhere_ and actually in plain sight of whoever just broke in?”

“In a roundabout way, yes. I have only taken the liberty of tracking and tagging the necessary documents,” Enjolras says.

“It’s only a matter of time till someone makes the connections and either acquires those archives or destroys them too,” Bossuet remarks. “In other circumstances _we_ would be the backup system then!”

“Not just us,” Courfeyrac concurs. “You don’t have an eidetic or photographic memory, and you’re not as crazy as Magnussen to store up everything in your head just in case you end up in an almost lobotomized state, heaven forbid. This is why I am sure that you left some information at home, and even at Eponine’s office at Saint-Michel.”

 “The Blakeneys are also privy to some copies, while nearly all our video surveillance is also backed up on Mr. Fauchelevent’s system. Gavroche also has files too.” Enjolras pauses just to see the light of comprehension on his friends’ faces. “At this point one of our immediate tasks should be to secure our primary sources.”

“Such as that girl I saw Eponine with just a while back,” Feuilly notes. “That’s Tess, am I right? I’ve seen her at the halfway house.”

“Yes, her. Eponine and I are putting her up for the time being,” Enjolras informs them. “She has some information concerning the sniper _and_ his employer.”

Feuilly takes a deep breath before nodding. “So aside from us, and maybe the people at the halfway house, no one knows she’s staying with you guys?”

“I haven’t established that,” Enjolras admits. ‘ _For all I know someone such as that Mr. Deeds could have been following Tess all night,’_ he realizes.

Bossuet laughs ruefully. “We’ve been had, I cannot believe it.”

“I wouldn’t be gloating too long if I was the sorry sod behind this,” Bahorel says as he claps his friend on the back. “The way I see it, this person just dropped his pants and is inviting us to kick his butt.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes at this crass statement but all the same he is not one to simply belittle this threat. As he is cleaning up the fragments of his desk, he catches a glimpse of the traffic on the thoroughfare below. ‘ _That’s the tail end of the morning rush,’_ he observes, seeing that most of the vehicles are small cars, occasionally interspersed with a van or lorry. ‘ _The big cargo trucks won’t start blocking up the road till about noon.’_

“Hey there Chief, is everything alright?” Feuilly calls. “Got anything more you want to throw out?”

“Just a moment,” Enjolras mutters. In all the years he’s been working in this neighbourhood, he’s never paid too much attention to the general patterns of traffic, save for when he needs to know the best time to leave a place in order to avoid the rush hour. ‘ _Whoever broke in here moved quickly, and within a particular time window at that.’_

By now Courfeyrac is also at the window. “Something wrong down there?”

“Courf, what time do you usually hear the cargo trucks driving by your place?” Enjolras asks.

“Before midnight. That’s when they come in from out of town,” Courfeyrac replies confusedly. “You think the crooks hid something then?”

“No, they avoided it,” Enjolras explains. “Given the usual traffic in this area, that would mean that the best hour to have been here _and_ unseen would have been perhaps between in the morning up to three. That is when the first out of town travellers arrive on the ferries as well as the buses that come from the riverside road. This narrows down a great deal in terms of surveillance _and_ alibis.”

“Which we could corroborate with the security camera blackout,” Courfeyrac adds enthusiastically. “Now this little hitch has turned into their blunder.”   

“The more they strike, the more evidence they leave behind,” Bahorel agrees. “That’s why _most_ criminals won’t try the same thing twice.”

 “Emphasis on _most_ ,” Enjolras remarks even as he sends a text message to Gavroche politely asking him to review the traffic surveillance taken at the time window he has just outlined. It takes the better part of an hour before the office is cleared up enough to allow them to move in some plastic chairs and an old table to serve as a temporary sort of workspace, or at least a place to park their laptops. As soon as this is done Enjolras hears his phone ring. “That was fast, Gavroche,” he greets.

“You’re not going to like this,” Gavroche replies. “So there was this blue four door van seen near the office. The license plates were covered, _but_ I can tell you that this van got ditched in the parking lot near Pier 1. There’s no camera there, so that leaves us shooting in the dark.”

“Not if the car is still there. The SOCO would like to know that,” Enjolras says. “Please send it along.”

“You may as well send Bahorel on down. I’m pretty sure there’s gunnery in that car he’d like to see and show to Officer Hooper,” Gavroche adds mischievously.

“Perhaps later. Thank you.” Enjolras smirks as he hears his brother in law end the call. “In the meantime we have to get Tess to identify someone,” he tells his friends.

“From which particular line up?” Feuilly asks.

“Security agencies.” Enjolras sets down his own laptop and types in a clearance in order to pull up rosters and pictures, but from the databases of the Bureau of Investigations. ‘ _Sometimes these groups are not particularly choosy as to their personnel,’_ he notes as he begins downloading lists.

Feuilly clucks his tongue when he sees what Enjolras is up to. “Why is it you always end up investigating the ones who look as if they could break _you_ in half?”

“Occupational hazards,” Enjolras deadpans as he saves his list. He touches Feuilly’s shoulder. “Will you also go to Saint-Michel? I believe that you would be able to help Tess shed some light on this situation.”

Feuilly nods. “We have to keep this from getting back to the halfway house. Those kids shouldn’t be in this crossfire.”

“I’ve already warned Cecily; she’s already on her guard,” Enjolras reassures him. “Bahorel will get in touch with the SOCO once they are done with their work. Courfeyrac, you have to get in touch with the Blakeneys. Bossuet, you must visit Florence at the university and ask her about the other benefactors besides Magnussen. Men like him lay out their beneficence in concert. Jehan may know something too.”

After discussing a few more matters, they all leave the office for their respective assignments. When Enjolras and Feuilly arrive at Saint Michel, they find Combeferre and Tess sitting in Eponine’s office. “I knew it was a matter of time till you’d get here,” Combeferre greets them. “I heard about what happened at the law office.”

 “It’s dire but not as much as it looks.” Enjolras sets down his laptop on the desk. “We were able to get the line-up downloaded,” he informs Tess. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Tess nods. “Can’t live always worrying about a bullet to my back.” She shakes her head as she begins scrolling through the photos and names. “Nope, they all look too nice.”

“Maybe he was in disguise?” Feuilly volunteers.

“What, to scare me and Johannes?” Tess drawls before suddenly she goes still. “There. That’s Mr. Deeds. But with a different name.”

“Simon Garbe, credentials under the Fouche firm,” Enjolras reads. “How current is this?”

“Updated yesterday,” Combeferre replies as he points to the fine print at the bottom of the screen. “I don’t hear good things about Fouche; he’s brilliant and ruthless. You don’t mean to face him?”

Enjolras reaches in his pocket, where his fingers brush against the fragments of the photos.  “It may be necessary. If so, I’m not turning back.”

 


	32. Chapter 32

****

**Chapter 32: Looking a Wolf in the Eye**

Fantine has never been one for ‘retail therapy’, at least the sort so often seen in montages on romantic comedies. ‘ _I’d best do this while my feet are still sound and my back is still in good order,’_ she muses silently as she walks into yet another baby clothes boutique. As far as she’s concerned, what extra money she makes from her little businesses such as bonsai is best spent on surprising family, friends, and even the elderly residents at the homes and hospitals that she and Jean Valjean work with. Today, her project is to stock up on things for Eponine and her son, especially since it does not appear that there are plans for a baby shower any time soon.

The blonde woman smiles as she picks out onesies, shirts, shorts, caps, and diapers, taking care to also get some clothes in bigger sizes. A salesclerk rearranging a rack nearby looks her over sceptically, clearly taking stock of Fantine’s still curvaceous figure and the lines around her eyes. “Menopause baby?”

“No, just being a grandmother,” Fantine replies. It only feels right to say this since after all Eponine is more than just a former student to her. ‘ _Also because her own mother can’t and won’t do this for her,’_ she realizes as she inspects a stretchy baby sling designed to be worn as a wrap.

The clerk raises her eyebrows. “There’s a special on baby bottles today.”

“No thanks, I think this will do,” Fantine says calmly as she adds the sling to her cart and takes her purchases to the cashier. She turns a blind eye to the price, preferring instead to hand over her credit card. Just as she does so she sees the other salesladies and clerks racing to the door and the shop windows. “What’s happening?”

“Some hotshot walked into the mall,” the saleslady drawls. She blinks as she does a double-take. “There’s Fouche, everyone’s darling businessman. Quite dashing or at least everyone seems to think so ever since he appeared on the cover of the _Society Reporter._ Do you read it, Ma’am?”

Fantine shakes her head even as she catches a glimpse of a dark haired man clad in a sleekly cut and obviously very expensive suit. Judging by his dapper appearance and clean shaven looks, he’s about the same age as Marius and Cosette, perhaps maybe a few years older. Despite the crowd in the mall’s main alleyway, he still is flanked by two bodyguards dressed in otherwise non-descript blue polo shirts and slacks. This show of opulence is certainly not lost on the other shoppers and passers-by, who start rubbernecking and pushing each other for a closer look or photo op with this newly famous young man.

The saleslady at the cashier shakes her head disapprovingly at this exuberant adulation. “As if that will get him to notice any one of these silly girls here! He’s not going to come into this shop like a knight in shining armor, as if this was one of those pocket romances.” She eyes Fantine more knowingly. “Maybe you can tell them a thing or two about how it’s really like.”

‘ _Not about knights, but about good men and excellent fathers,’_ Fantine thinks with a smile. When it comes to Jean Valjean, her only regret is that she had not met him sooner, that he had not been at her side when Cosette was born. Nevertheless the fact remains that they have lived the years together, and that there is still so much to go.

Fantine walks out of the mall five minutes later, loaded down with large paper bags. As she’s carefully steering her van out of the parking lot, she almost doesn’t see the black sedan also backing out of a parking space just ahead. She slams on the brake just in the nick of the time, and the sudden stop flings her hard against her seat. She looks up just in time to see a burly man emerging from the other car. “Sorry! It’s not going to happen again!” she calls breathlessly as she rolls down the window.

The burly man glares at her as he puts his hands akimbo. “You almost scratched our car, woman!”

Fantine swallows hard even as she risks a glance out her window, only to see that the bumpers of the cars aren’t even touching. “I’m sorry for cutting you off, but it’s not going to happen again,” she begins.

“I’ll tell you what’s not happening again---“the man snarls as he raises one of his hands.

“Deeds, back off. It was just an accident,” another man calls as he steps out of the backseat. He taps on Fantine’s window and gives her an affable if not apologetic smile. “I’m sorry about my employee’s behavior; he was just taken off guard. Christian Fouche, at your service.” 

Fantine’s eyes widen as she recognizes the young man who was the subject of so much fawning in the mall. At a closer look she can understand why; with his chiselled jaw and toned musculature he can pass for a leading man in a film. “Thank you, Sir. That’s very kind of you,” she manages to say.

“I hope that this incident has not frightened you badly, Mrs...”  Fouche trails off.

“Fauchelevent. Fantine Fauchelevent,” the woman replies more easily. ‘ _How could a decent man like him employ such a terrible person?’_ she wonders even as she straightens up and repositions her foot on the gas pedal. “Thank you for understanding, Mr. Fouche.”

“If you have any other concerns, Mrs. Fauchelevent, here is my card,” Fouche says, bringing out a small white card with the words: _Christian Fouche, Chief Executive Officer, FastNet Communications_. He smiles warmly again at Fantine. “Stay safe.”

“You too,” Fantine replies even as she carefully steers her car towards the exit. While waiting at a red light she takes the opportunity to examine the card handed to her. It is simple and sleek, with a slight tilt in the font being the only affectation. ‘ _Maybe he can be of help with some of our future projects,’_ she decides as she heads for Eponine and Enjolras’ new home in order to drop off her surprise gift.

She is hardly surprised to find Combeferre’s and Bahorel’s cars, as well as Feuilly’s and Gavroche’s motorcycles parked outside the house. In fact the only astonishing thing is finding a new face, a young girl, lounging about with Gavroche and Combeferre in the yard. “Hello boys. Who’s your new friend?” Fantine greets.

The girl looks her over. “My name is Tess. Are you Mr. Enjolras’ mother?”

“No, not at all. I’m only a family friend,” Fantine laughs. “I’m Fantine.”

“She’s Cosette’s mother by the way,” Combeferre explains to Tess. “Tess is a houseguest,” he adds for Fantine’s benefit.

Gavroche smirks as he and Combeferre get up to help Fantine set down the shopping bags in the living room. “All this loot is for the spawn?”

“I hope you won’t call your nephew that,” Fantine chides him. “Where’s your sister?”

Gavroche jerks his thumb towards the kitchen. “She’s with the others looking at something online. The reception is better out back.”

Fantine bites the inside of her cheek just to keep from protesting outright. True to form she finds Eponine, Enjolras, Feuilly, and Bahorel all crowded around a laptop, apparently looking up a photo gallery of faces. She stops in her tracks when she sees one particular visage pop up on the screen.  “That’s Mr. Fouche!”

Eponine is the first to look up. “Hi Fantine. Are you dropping in for dinner?”

Fantine shakes her head. “What are you doing?”

“Research,” Feuilly replies. He glances back at the screen and then at Fantine. “How do you know him?”

“I ran into him today at the mall. He was kind enough to give me his card,” Fantine replies as she finds a seat near the counter.

“Do you mind if we please have a look at it?” Enjolras asks.

Fantine hands over the card that she’s kept in her pocket. “He was quite charming. His bodyguard though was another story.”

“Simon Garbe, no doubt,” Bahorel mutters before taking a swig of soda.

“Mr. Fouche called him Deeds.” Fantine sighs when she sees the grim looks that pass among the young people. “Mr. Fouche is very nice. I can’t imagine he’d be the sort to run into trouble.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “The public record says otherwise. He’s faced complaints from labor unions, environment groups, as well as from a number of individuals who’ve brought him up on charges of use of grave threats.”

 “But he was such a gentleman!” Fantine exclaims in disbelief. She takes a deep breath and looks at Eponine, hoping to catch her attention before this dangerous business engrosses her again. “I brought some things that I hope you’ll find handy for you and the baby. Why don’t you have a look?”

Eponine’s eyes widen with surprise. “You don’t mean----“

“Indulge me. It’s been some time since I’ve thrown a baby shower,” Fantine says encouragingly. Much to her relief, Eponine doesn’t protest but instead follows her into the living room. “It’s a good thing that the designs nowadays aren’t as frilly as before. Do you like them?” she asks as she spreads out the entire layette on the sofa.

Eponine nods gratefully. “Thank you, Fantine. I’ve been getting things little by little for the baby but this really goes a long way.”

“I know it’s hard to get away from work, but you should make an effort to do that more, for yourself and the baby,” Fantine reminds her former student. She glances back to the kitchen, where she is sure the talk has turned dangerous once more. “All this stress is not healthy. It’s not going to get easier for you as your due date gets nearer, trust me.”

“I’m taking care of myself, really,” Eponine replies as she takes a seat. “Maybe sometimes I get a _little_ too overloaded, but it’s not as bad as it seems.”

“Eponine, I’ve known you since you were seventeen. I’ve seen how tired you can get. I know you get headaches when you don’t sleep well.” Fantine sighs deeply at the memories of this girl hunched over her textbooks, crying while holding her head in her hands.” I know that you swore you’d be with Enjolras for better and for worse, but does this mean that you have to follow him into this investigation?”

Eponine smiles wryly. “Actually we started it together. You might also remember that when I start something, I finish it.”

“When all of this began, you didn’t even know you were pregnant,” Fantine points out. “If not for yourself, then think of your child!”

“Don’t you think that he’s part of why I’m doing this too?”

That is when Fantine finally sees it clearly, as if she is looking into a mirror that can reach back into the years. She is no stranger to this fire, for it blazed in her bones during those dark days when she clutched Cosette to her bosom while they sought shelter on the streets. ‘ _I thought then that to live was impossible,’_ she realizes, and yet decades later here she is, alive and well. She sighs before meeting Eponine’s bold gaze.”I’ve never been able to hold you back from anything.”

“You’ve always been concerned for me, and I’ve never forgotten that,” Eponine replies. A fond smile crosses her face when she hears Enjolras’ voice grow louder amid the discussion in the next room. “To be honest there isn’t much left to do with this case since Auguste is tying everything together. We might be able to get this all done before Christmas.”

“I hope that will come true for you two. There is no such thing as a quiet Christmas once a kid comes along,” Fantine remarks.

“I don’t think a quiet Christmas is possible _at all_ with this family,” Eponine quips.  She nods to Enjolras as she catches sight of him discreetly entering the room. “Auguste, take a look.”

Enjolras pauses on seeing all the gifts Fantine has brought. “Are we supposed to pick something?”

“Haven’t you ever been to a baby shower?” Fantine replies. “You, sir, have to take better care of your wife. She’s pregnant and she needs her rest!”

“Fantine thinks I’m working too hard,” Eponine explains resignedly.

“Eponine, you are already aware of my worries, but I believe that you are the best judge of your capacities in this matter,” Enjolras remarks, bringing his hand to rest lightly on his partner’s shoulder.

‘ _How does he worry about her then?’_ Fantine wonders silently. Before she can comment on this, Enjolras quickly mutters an apology and fishes out his phone. “Is he always like this?” she asks Eponine.

Eponine laughs. “Oh little does everyone else know!” She bites her lip and gets to her feet when she sees a worried scowl cross Enjolras’ face. “Who was that?” she asks as soon as he ends the call.

“Fouche,” Enjolras deadpans. “I’m not surprised he was able to place this call; in fact I was expecting it. He intends to set a meeting.”

“When?” Eponine asks.

“Tomorrow.” The attorney sets a reminder on his phone. “It’s a chance to test the waters and see where the tide really lies.”

Fantine gapes at him, wondering if his work has finally driven him mad. “Shouldn’t you be afraid? You are going after his man after all.”

“Cautious is the word on our side,” Enjolras replies. His blue eyes are dark with a resolve that even Fantine knows cannot be gainsaid. “As for him being afraid, well that will depend on how much he truly has to hide.”

 


	33. Chapter 33

****

**Chapter 33: One’s Own Arena**

Despite having a long Saturday night, Feuilly still returns early to his friends’ home, if only to have a place to park his bike while he is at work. As he walks up to the door he can already hear the strains of music from the living room, but the choice of a pulsing dance tune gives him pause. He knocks on the door once and chuckles when the music suddenly stops. “Tess, it’s just me, Feuilly,” he greets.

Tess is still red in the face when she flings the door open a moment later. Her hair is still standing up all over the place and she is dressed in an over-sized t-shirt and shorts, all evidence of a good night’s rest. “Doc Eponine and Mr. Enjolras are still upstairs.”

“I figured as much,” Feuilly replies as he follows her into the living room. He breathes in the fresh scent wafting in from the kitchen garden. ‘ _Basil and mint,’_ he notes as he sets down his bag “How are you settling in?”

“Glad to have a room all to myself for once,” Tess quips as she plops on the sofa and crosses her long legs. “Mr. Bahorel said that you were a lot like me and the doc. You used to live in a halfway house.”

Feuilly can only smile at this partial truth. “I spent more time in the streets.” Of course he sees Tess’ eyes widen with this revelation. “My parents and I lived under a bridge after we lost our place in a fire---it was blamed on my father, and no one wanted to hire a man who was capable of arson. We used to hawk socks and wrenches; those were good times. I only got put in a home after my parents died.”

“You bolted. Most anyone would,” Tess states bluntly.

“I’m not proud of it.” Feuilly rubs the bridge of his nose as he considers his next words; there is no honour in the things he was forced to do in those days on the lam, but at the same time he does not want Tess believing that she is beyond any sort of hope. “Like most other people, I found company. Some of the things that they did would have given the _Difunto_ boys nightmares.”

“If they were such aces, where are they now?” Tess scoffs.

“Nowhere. They do not do well behind bars. If they run afoul of the bosses....” Feuilly makes a slicing motion across his neck. “I sometimes was forced to watch.”

“Johannes used to call it ‘getting put away’,” Tess says thickly as she looks down for a moment. “You’re good and all, but you _can’t_ understand me. No one can.”

“Why, what did you do?”

“I was the one who left home.”

Feuilly nods, knowing what she means with this. “How long ago?”

“Four years ago. I was thirteen. Not like it could have mattered to _them_.” Tess shudders with revulsion at this word. “Your parents loved you. I can tell. Mine had no business having children and they made it right clear with their hands.”

“Did you ever contact them again?” Feuilly asks slowly.

“Might have thought of it if they’d just tried too. Never heard a peep from them again even when Miss Cecily tried to track them down,” Tess says with a shrug. She looks down for a moment as she swings her feet. “It’s better this way, really. They could be off somewhere, anywhere they want to be in the world by now.”

Feuilly remains silent, if only to allow Tess time to come back to the present. “Whatever you do, you’ll make _yourself_ proud,” he finally says. “You won’t be in the halfway house for all your life, Tess.”

“I know but I want _out_ of downtown. Many of the older girls who’ve left the home, I still see them around. They work in the area, keeping shops or having four and a half kids with some man.” Tess shakes her head. “Not me.”

‘ _There is half the battle won,’_ Feuilly decides even as he turns at the familiar sound of Enjolras’ footsteps on the stairwell. “Early, just as I said I’d be, Chief,” he greets. “May I clean up here?”

“There’s a bathroom this way,” Enjolras replies, gesturing to a door on his left. He rolls up the sleeves of his maroon shirt before looking at his two guests. “Are you interested in something more substantial than toast and coffee?”

Tess snorts with disbelief. “You’re actually going to cook?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “You’re also free to help yourself to the cereal.”

Feuilly grins at the astonished look that crosses Tess’ face. “It’s a survival skill.”

Tess shakes her head. “A guy shouldn’t do that,” she says in an undertone. “Are you just gonna let him?”

“It’s called being fair,” Enjolras calls from the kitchen. “Again, do you want anything?”

“Scrambled eggs with all the fixings!” Tess bellows. She looks to Eponine, who is just coming down the stairs. “You should be the one cooking.”

“You’re the first girl to tell _me_ to stay in the kitchen,” Eponine retorts as she tugs down her green billowing blouse over her stretchy jeans.

Feuilly gets up to help her set the table at the breakfast nook. “What will you ladies do today?” he asks.

“Meeting with Cecily about how to get Tess’ schoolwork to her, among other things,” Eponine explains. “You heard me right, young lady, this is not going to be a vacation. You can’t fall behind in school just because you’re helping this investigation,” she adds when she sees Tess looking in her direction.

 Tess scowls and crosses her arms. “You’re supposed to be my doc, not my mother.”

“She has a point,” Feuilly reminds Tess more firmly.

The teenager rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue. “So she says she was able to get out because of her siblings. What was it for you?” she asks as soon as Eponine has also gone to the kitchen.

Feuilly pauses once more to consider his words; while he’s told and retold the narrative of his life to many an ally or enemy in his community work, he’s never had the question posed for him in the voice of one needing a guide. “I knew I wasn’t always a boy of the gangs. I picked up my parents’ old trade and then eventually scraped up enough to leave that part of town. I eventually qualified to be a working student at the university, and the rest is history,” he replies. “Easier said than done.”

“That’s what you all say,” Tess mutters. “Does the attorney have a story too?”

“Yes, but that’s best left for some other time,” Feuilly points out before excusing himself to the bathroom. ‘ _I will not be the one to divulge my friends’ secrets,’_ he vows silently while he changes out of his black t-shirt and jeans in favor of a white polo shirt and dark slacks. The outfit is smart, but understated enough not to attract any ire. After all he is coming along as second and witness in this first salvo that Enjolras is about to fire.

When Feuilly exits the bathroom he is greeted by the enticing aromas of butter, tomatoes, cheese, and coffee. “Where did you learn to make that?” he asks, gesturing to a plate of eggs scrambled with tomatoes and peppers.

“I downloaded a recipe,” Enjolras deadpans before biting into a piece of toast.

Eponine squeezes his shoulder. “Good call though.” She dumps a spoonful of eggs onto an empty plate and hands it to Feuilly. “Trust me, you’ll never eat scrambled eggs the same way again.”

‘ _Coming from her that is pretty high praise,’_ Feuilly decides; after all he knows who does more cooking in this household. The savoury tang of the dish has him making a thumbs-up sign at Enjolras. “What if this talk with Fouche is not forthcoming?”

“I do not expect it to be,” Enjolras replies. “I only mean to take his pulse, in a manner of speaking.”

“If you’re not careful, he’ll end up taking a lot more from you than just that,” Eponine points out. “There is a reason that even my father wouldn’t fish with big ones like him.”

“Weren’t they in very different lines of work?” Enjolras asks.

“Papa took a stab at the coat and tie world, and decided that the money wasn’t coming in quick enough,” Eponine relates nonchalantly before cramming another spoonful of eggs in her mouth. “Maman thought for a bit she’d be one of those swanky corporate wives.”

“In those stories, it’s not the wives who are the swanky ones,” Tess mutters.

Feuilly shakes his head at this melodramatic yet nonetheless true to life quip. “’ _A gilded prison of a dream,’_ he notes as he continues eating his breakfast. It’s a melancholy idea that he can’t help but mull over, until he and Enjolras are driving to the _Bistro Savoir_ near the centre of town.

Upon their arrival they are immediately shown to a table situated in an alcove towards the back of the bistro. Already seated is a dark haired man sipping a glass of wine while idly looking through a tablet. He looks up from the gadget and sets it down with a smile. “I am pleased that you agreed to this meeting on such short notice, Attorney Enjolras,” he greets. “I’m Christian Fouche.”

Enjolras shakes his hand firmly. “I’d also like to introduce my associate, Gilles Feuilly,” he says cordially, motioning to his friend. “He is working with me in this present inquiry.”

“Ah yes, the community worker,” Fouche replies as he holds out a hand to Feuilly. “I am surprised you have also been able to take time off your busy schedule to attend to this.”

“It is a Sunday after all,” Feuilly says glibly, even as he tries not to wrinkle his nose at the doors of tobacco mingling with red wine.  

Fouche smiles as Enjolras and Feuilly take their seats. He holds out the bottle of wine. “What do you prefer to drink?”

“I’ll have a cup of coffee. Black, no sugar,” Enjolras replies. “What about you, Feuilly?”

“Orange juice,” Feuilly says. Unlike his friend there is only so much caffeine he can stand in the span of a few hours.

Fouche signals for a waiter to take their orders as well as for a refill of his wine. “I’d like to extend my congratulations in advance as to your impending fatherhood, Enjolras,” he adds. “I cannot imagine it will be easy to raise a child given your resources and your schedules, you and your wife both.”

“We’ll manage,” Enjolras says candidly. “This is a great deal though for small talk.”

Fouche grins as their beverages arrive. “I wish to clear up and reconcile some misunderstandings that have been perpetrated over the past few weeks. Your inquiries into the doings of some of my acquaintances may have given you an erroneous impression as to my business.”

“I would hardly use the term ‘acquaintances’ to refer to your business partners such as Bidault and Magnussen,” Enjolras answers coolly as he sets down his coffee cup and puts his hands on the table. “It would interest you to also know that I was already keeping tabs on some of the lower echelons and groundwork of your business practices long before Bidault came to my attention. Your companies have been tagged in a number of environmental, labour and employment cases.”

“Those are the dealings of meddlers,” Fouche scoffs. “Many of them will contest anything that does not agree with their stomachs.”  

Feuilly clears his throat. “A number of the complaints were also class suits from the communities I’ve worked with.”  

“Yes, those. If you do your research, Mr. Feuilly, you will find that the hands behind many of these are organizations and advocates who have confused their agenda,” Fouche answers as he leans back in his seat. He takes a sip of wine, taking care not to spill a drop of it on the front of his deep blue shirt. “They talk as if good business is unethical, or as if economics is a blight on society. I am sure you understand that this isn’t so.”  

A slight smirk plays across Enjolras’ lips. “That would depend on the definition of good business.” 

“I have spent the past six years setting up an efficient telecommunications network, with a coverage that some providers can only dream of. I provide hundreds, if not thousands of jobs.  My contribution to this country’s revenue is substantial. You could even call it progressive.” Fouche looks Enjolras in the eye. “Now tell me, what there is not considered ‘good’?”

“Those facts are admirable. I will not contest those,” Enjolras answers. “Nevertheless you have spoken of a fairly general picture. The details such as the conditions of your factories, the terms of employment, and even the manner of recruitment are less than laudable.”

Fouche’s eyes narrow. “Those are the misdemeanours of just a few, the miscreants and rogues.”

“All the same they carry your firms’ names, and by extension, your own,” Enjolras points out. “I also would not dismiss years of complaints and cases as mere isolated incidents, especially when coupled with the silence of your associates.”

“The last time I checked, Attorney Enjolras, you were not a man of business,” Fouche chuckles. He takes another sip of wine before leaning in to look Enjolras in the eye. “Policing my ranks is my business. Your interference is not needed. Surely your efforts can be better expended on catching the riffraff who run crimes in the streets, or better yet, seeing to that family of yours.”

“You can be assured that I will do my utmost to address these grievances justly.” Enjolras drains his coffee cup and sets it down before putting a bill under the saucer. “Have a good weekend, Mr. Fouche.”

Fouche pushes the bill back. “It’s on me.”

“No,” Enjolras gets to his feet. “I hope I have not overly detained you from your appointments, Feuilly,” he addresses his friend.

“Not at all,” Feuilly replies, giving Fouche a curt nod before following Enjolras out of the bistro. He waits till they are out of earshot and back in the car before speaking again. “He would not admit to anything.”

“He does not have to, not here at least,” Enjolras says with a wry, almost knowing smile. “As I said, I only meant to take his pulse.”

“Is it that of a guilty man?” Feuilly asks eagerly.

“I would not say so, which is the more troubling aspect,” Enjolras points out. “Guilt is only possible if one understands offence.”

Feuilly grits his teeth as he realizes what Enjolras is saying. “This then means war.”

“It has been war for a very long time,” Enjolras replies as he starts the engine. “We’d best get back home and warn Eponine, Tess, and the rest. There is much to prepare before office hours tomorrow.”


	34. Chapter 34

****

**Chapter 34: On Acts of Cowardice**

On any other day the cliché of doughnuts and coffee would have Bahorel laughing; as far as he’s concerned it’s something that belongs in comics and cartoons lampooning cops. ‘ _Funny how the reality plays out,’_ he muses as he takes an obscenely large bite of a strawberry jelly doughnut. “Karen should be here soon. She’s just confirming the warrant,” he drawls over the clinking of a spoon against a cup.

Bossuet puts down the offending piece of cutlery and ducks his head to avoid the glares of the other customers in the diner. “So we’ve got a warrant for this Mr. Deeds, Simon Garbe, or whatever name he is using, but we’re actually letting Fouche run about? Isn’t that rather counterproductive?”

“Not if one is simply trying to solve the attempted murder of Magnussen and the murder of Johannes Samson,” Enjolras chimes in as he sets down his own cup of coffee and hands a steamed bun to Feuilly. “Garbe can be readily tied to those. We need more direct evidence to ascertain Fouche’s involvement.”

“He’s already in plain sight, Chief. If it wasn’t for having to be all legal, we would have nabbed him by now,” Bahorel gripes. Before he can launch off into another diatribe about the entanglements of the legal profession he espies Karen sauntering up to the small cafe. “Now you’re the best thing I’ve seen all morning,” he greets.

“It must be the blues,” Karen jokes, gesturing to her neatly pressed uniform. She sits down and picks up a doughnut from the box. “As a rule, we don’t bring civilians along during an arrest.  If this Garbe figure is as dangerous as all anecdotes and profiling make him out to be, there will be some trouble involved.”

“What do the profiles say?” Feuilly asks eagerly.

“That’s confidential, but we can all guess that he’ll be willing to use unnecessary force,” Karen replies before taking another bite of her doughnut. “Definitely not a risk I’m letting you boys take.”

“Alas for excitement,” Bahorel groans. “I’m only joking of course!” he adds when Karen shoots him a withering look.

“As you can see, I’m not on the apprehending team,” Karen says, swatting his hand. “There are limits even on the force.”

“She’s the one with a gun license and the badge. If she’s not in on the action, there’s not much we can hope for ourselves,” Bossuet points out. “Sorry, but the lady has the point on this one.”

‘ _Which is what worries me,’_ Bahorel almost says before he deliberately takes a sip of his hot coffee to check the thought. Just looking at Karen is enough to make his stomach twist; he’s seen more formidable-looking individuals taken down by a single blow or bullet, and the idea of Karen facing something similar is not something he wants to openly consider.

Suddenly Karen looks down and pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Well, speak of the devil,” she mutters. “Looks like you got what you wanted, Remy. Garbe just bolted.”

“Wait, what did I do?” Bahorel sputters as Bossuet groans while Enjolras merely shakes his head.

“Haven’t you forgotten the universe’s law of attraction?” Bossuet says. “Self-fulfilling prophecies, willing things into action---“

“It is simply dealing with a worst-case scenario,” Enjolras remarks. “I take then, he is headed this way?” he asks as Karen gets to her feet.

“Don’t say another word,” the police officer warns as she begins walking more quickly to the door. “I’ll update you all once this is done.”

Before anyone can stop him, Bahorel races out of the booth and follows Karen out the door. “Let me at least get you to a rendezvous with your team,” he insists as he grabs her arm.

Karen shakes her head. “You’ll be a liability on the scene. No. Just no.”  She looks down, as if checking her belt for her gun. “You guys need to lie low. Don’t make me arrest you for getting in the way,” she adds before she crosses the street.

‘ _The thing is she would do just that,’_ Bahorel realizes as he skulks back into the diner, only to find his friends already settling the bill. “So what do we do now?”

“Keep our eyes open and let the police do their work,” Enjolras replies evenly. “Now is not the time for rash action.”

Bahorel grits his teeth as he hurls a bill onto the table. “Deeds is on the run. Once he gets past the city limits, he’s as good as gone.”

“He will not stray too far from his protectors,” Enjolras points out. “Courfeyrac said he’d be at the courthouse all day. Perhaps we should see how he is getting on.”

Bossuet nods affably. “By the way, if you’re here and Eponine is at work, who’s looking out for Tess?”

“She’ll be spending the day with Grantaire and Darren,” Enjolras replies bemusedly.

Feuilly raises an eyebrow. “Is that the wisest idea?”

“It is one she is amenable to,” Enjolras replies.

“Better than dropping her off at the Fauchelevents’ home. I would not dare to inflict her on Fantine, God bless that dear lady,” Bahorel remarks. He cannot imagine anything as disastrous as Fantine’s demure manners meeting Tess’ brasher ways. ‘ _How long can she stay safe though?”_ he wonders even as they all part ways for the day: Enjolras to the courthouse, Feuilly to a community meeting, Bossuet to the Bureau of Investigations, and Bahorel himself to his own apartment to watch and wait. For once, the absence of evidence to examine at the crime lab is not reassuring.

He does not know exactly what time he closes his eyes, but the next thing he knows he hears his phone ringing at an ear-splitting volume, right on the armrest of his sofa. He groans at the now golden sunlight filtering through the blinds as he reaches out to grab the gadget, only to bolt upright when he sees the number on the screen. “What’s up there, Eponine?”

“We’ve been trying to get a hold of you, Bahorel,” Eponine replies in a hushed voice. “Karen says you aren’t picking up.”

Bahorel winces on seeing all the missed calls on his phone. “Why, where is she?” 

“Here, at Saint-Michel,” Eponine replies. “She was wounded at that shootout versus Simon Garbe, at the halfway house. She’s out of danger though.”

“You don’t mean----“

“He thought that Tess was still there.”

Bahorel snorts. “A costly mistake.”

“It is, on both sides.” Eponine pauses to take a deep breath. “Cecily and some of the girls were wounded. Mother Asuncion is in a bad way.”

Bahorel sits back down on the couch. ‘ _No one could have done anything to prevent this,’_ he thinks even as he feels his throat go dry. “Tell Karen I’ll be there in a while, without fail.”

“Good. We’ll see you,” Eponine says loudly over the blaring of an alarm just a second before the connection fades out.

Bahorel’s fingers shake as he sends a text message to Karen by way of apology, then hurries to wash his face and change into a clean shirt. He nearly gets pulled over several times for speeding as he drives, but he merely takes more detours till he finally succeeds in finding a space in the hospital parking lot. He barrels right into the emergency room, only to nearly run smack into a gurney being rushed out of the emergency room. “Combeferre!” he shouts, recognizing one of the men pushing the stretcher.

“Not now, Bahorel!” Combeferre hollers over his shoulder. “Karen is in there, in the observation room.”

‘ _How much artillery did that Deeds fellow have on him?’_ Bahorel wonders silently as he walks into the jam-packed emergency room. Gurneys and stretchers are crammed into every possible corner, and most of these makeshift beds are occupied by young girls. He finally catches sight of Karen sitting near a screened off cubicle. “What did that bastard do to you?” he sputters as he takes in the sight of her right arm wrapped up in a sling.

“Tried to get me in the clavicle and very nearly did,” Karen asks, smiling weakly. She grabs his arm with her free hand to lead him off. “I’m fine, or at least better off than some of the team.”

“How many men down?” he asks.

“Two.” She looks away and shakes her head. “I’ll be fine. It’s not the first time it’s happened.”

Bahorel nods even as he takes a step towards her. In that moment she seems so far away even if she is right next to him, lost perhaps in the recollections of the day. “At least you got him,” he points out, managing a grin.

“He’s in that room there,” Karen replies, pointing towards one of the emergency room’s isolation areas. “We had to handcuff him to the bed, and there’s a guard in there with him.”

This time Bahorel laughs at the mental picture, only to quiet down when he catches sight of Eponine and Navet entering the emergency room. Navet is in his regulation red scrubs, while Eponine has switched out her uniform top for a looser fitting green t-shirt with her drawstring pants. “How’s everything?” he asks them.

“Touch and go,” Eponine replies wearily. “I’ve already told Tess what happened, but I’m not asking her to come here yet. It’s a bit much.”

“It’s a bit much even for you,” Navet points out. “You might bring on your labor if you’re on your feet any much longer.”

Eponine shakes her head. “I do worse than this on most days.” She looks up and waves to Enjolras and Courfeyrac. “Took you guys long enough.”

“Traffic,” Enjolras replies. He lets out a breath as he makes eye contact with Eponine. “For a moment I was worried that you had been at the halfway house.”

 “I won’t be there for a while. Till we get this mess sorted out and we can get Tess a safer situation, I have to limit my involvement there to simply being ‘on call’,” Eponine says, giving her partner a knowing look. “Besides, I’m starting to get mobility issues.”

Enjolras cringes before squeezing Eponine’s shoulder. “So when these girls get discharged, where will they go?”

“I have to contact some places that can put them up.” She nods to Karen. “If you need a medical certificate or anything, I’ll write it up for you.”

“I could use a day or two off,” Karen concurs. She nearly jumps at the sound of a thump followed by cursing coming from the isolation cubicle. “Hey! No brawling in there!”

“He spat at me!” a policeman roars as he marches out of the room. “That filthy----“

Karen gives her colleague a reproving glare as she walks past him to throw the door open. From the doorway Bahorel can see a clean shaven man sitting up in bed, with his right wrist handcuffed to the side rail. This man’s blue button-down shirt is torn and spattered with crimson, but the way he moves betrays the fact that he is not the origin of these stains. He is all too aware of this fact as he sits up straighter and laughs. “Well, what’s this army?” 

Karen crosses her arms as she looks the suspect over. “You might want to behave yourself, Mr. Deeds. Every word you say can be taken against you.”

Simon Garbe gives them a filthy look. “What, or your lawyer friend is going to run me into the ground?”

“I could,” Enjolras remarks. “It would be wise for you to remain silent.”

Garbe sneers at him before looking at Eponine from head to toe. “If you’d been at that house, I would have shot you in the belly first.”

Bahorel sees Enjolras go white with fury and he just manages to grab his friend’s fist before it connects with Garbe’s face. “Enjolras, no. He’s not worth the effort,” he mutters.

Enjolras looks Garbe in the eye. “Indeed. What you said is a coward’s move,” he says slowly.

“What, you aren’t going to hit me? Do it. She’s standing right there,” Garbe taunts.

“Auguste, you do that and I’ll put you out of the ER myself,” Eponine warns sternly as she tugs on Enjolras’ elbow. “Come on.”

‘ _I hope that she and Navet were stingy on the lidocaine when stitching him up,’_ Bahorel thinks as they all leave the room. “What are you going to do with him?”

“Transfer him to the prison infirmary. I need to get that room cleaned up,” Eponine says with a shudder. “More like disinfected.”

Enjolras checks his phone. “This just came in. The Condors Security Group is disavowing any involvement with this Garbe fellow.”

“A cover-up, that’s what. They’re running scared,” Karen scoffs.

“That could be the case, but if it’s true, then this means he’s been working rogue or for Fouche personally,” Enjolras points out.”Whatever it is, that doesn’t change the fact that he attacked civilians and evaded arrest.”

Suddenly a phone rings from the nurse’s station. “Hey docs! There’s a code at the Surgical ICU!” a nurse shouts, holding up the receiver.

“That’s Mother Asuncion----“ Eponine breathes.

“I’ll get that,” Navet insists. “You shouldn’t be doing the chest compressions, Doc.”

Eponine nods reluctantly as Navet rushes out of the ER. “I’ll have to follow right back up though, Just to be sure, just to pronounce if ever----“she trails off before shaking her head. “I will not know what to tell the girls.”

“Isn’t there a course for how to break bad news?” Karen asks.

Eponine bites her lip as she sits down again. “Not really. We just pick it up from the senior doctors while we train. No matter how many times one has to do it, it never ever gets easier.”


	35. Chapter 35

****

**Chapter 35: Non-Negotiable**

The cloying scent of orchids lends an oppressive weight to the early afternoon heat in the chapel, giving rise to a queasiness that Eponine is rather unused to. ‘ _How did Mother Asuncion know so many people?’_ she wonders as she looks at all the floral arrangements crowded around the nun’s casket. The ribbons on the wreaths and garlands are embossed with names from various religious orders, foundations, schools, and even a few government personages. Even now some of these distinguished mourners are in the crowd filling up the chapel, extending their sympathies to the nuns in Mother Asuncion’s congregation as well as to Cecily and some of the girls from the halfway house.

A distinguished looking gentleman walks up to the pew where Eponine is seated. “Doctor, I heard you used to work closely with Mother Asuncion?” he greets, not hiding the surprise in his tone.

“Yes, and then some,” Eponine replies. She looks to where Tess is listlessly sitting with some friends, clearly unheeding of a lady’s attempts at commiserating with them. Nearby, Cecily shifts uncomfortably in a wheelchair. ‘ _There is nothing right that can be said here,’_ she thinks as she shifts in her seat in an attempt to get comfortable.

The gentleman clucks his tongue as he glances at the teenagers. “Mother Asuncion definitely kept them from going a bad way. Can’t hope for much better now,” he mutters before walking off to meet another guest just arriving to the chapel.

Eponine shakes her head, more so when she sees some men bring in another wreath decked out with a white ribbon bearing the words: ‘ _Condolences from the Fouche Firm and Partners’._ For a moment she thinks of calling someone to move the wreath away, but that is before she catches sight of a short, broad-shouldered nun approaching her, having just ended a conversation with Cecily. This nun smiles warmly at Eponine and extends a hand.  “I’m Mother Natividad, the prioress of the Visitation Convent. Judith---I mean, Mother Asuncion, spoke highly of you, Eponine.”

“Thank you, I suppose,” Eponine says awkwardly. “She was very kind to me while I was in her care, and she was the same with all the girls.”

The nun smiles as she takes a seat. “She prayed for your dreams and plans. When she heard that you finally became a doctor, she said that it was an answered prayer.” She clasps Eponine’s hand. “I cannot thank you enough for what you did for her, and the girls.”

‘ _It still wasn’t enough,’_ Eponine thinks, but she manages a nod. “Who will step in for her now?”

“That is still under deliberation with our local chapter,” Mother Natividad replies kindly. She puts a hand on Eponine’s midsection. “So how far are you along?”

“Seven months,” Eponine says, all the while fighting to keep a straight face.

“A boy or a girl?”

“A boy.”

Mother Natividad nods. “I hope he takes after you---oh excuse me, there is Judith's family. I’ll catch up with you later,” she says hurriedly before getting up to head to the chapel door.

Eponine watches for a moment as Mother Natividad greets a drawn and tired looking woman leaning on the arm of a middle-aged man. ‘ _Her mother and a brother,’_ she decides before getting up to also slip out a side entrance leading to the chapel garden. Once there she sits down on a small bench and surveys the index cards which she’s kept hidden in the pocket of her black blazer. ‘ _I don’t know if I can do this.’_

After a few moments she hears the side entrance door open and she looks up to see Enjolras also making his way to the bench. Like her he is also dressed all in black, but somehow still manages to look sharp even in this sweltering afternoon. “Got a bit stuffy in there?” she asks wryly.

“That, among other things,” he replies as he sits next to her and slips an arm around her shoulders. “You’ll do fine with the eulogy. It’s not too sentimental.”

“What is one even supposed to say in a funeral?” She swallows hard as she meets his calm gaze. “I haven’t been to many funerals. I mean, it’s odd since I see death all the time, just not like this. Most doctors don’t get to actually bury the people they lose. I don’t know now. I just don’t.”

“She wasn’t just a patient to you,” Enjolras reminds her. “You can speak of that.”

Eponine takes a deep breath and nods. “Your mentor, Myriel....he’s gone too now, isn’t he? What happened then?”

“He had cancer. He had time to prepare,” Enjolras replies. “The church was full---it was a cathedral, actually, and it was standing room only. That was how people turned out to honor him. It was a Catholic funeral, much like this since he was actually in a tertiary order. He had vows but he lived in the world as a teacher. Different family members gave eulogies during his wake, but on the actual necrological rites, that fell to one of the people in his parish, someone who knew him solely for his kindness. You and I know him.”

“Who?”

“M. Fauchelevent.”

Eponine’s jaw drops at this revelation. “How?”

“They met many, many years ago,” Enjolras explains. “Were it not for Charles Myriel, M. Fauchelevent would have gone a different way, without Fantine and Cosette.”

“You would not be here either,” Eponine concurs as she squeezes Enjolras’ hand. “Now if only I could always be as calm as you!”

“There is such a thing as the good sort of nervousness. Anticipation,” Enjolras points out even as the chapel bells ring, signalling the beginning of the Mass. They manage to find seats near Tess and Cecily as the choir of nuns starts with the simple strains of the entrance hymn: ‘ _The Lord is my Shepherd, there is nothing I shall want. He leads me to green pastures; with quiet waters He refreshes my soul.”_

‘ _Mother Asuncion always used to pray that, every night,’_ Eponine recalls as she shuts her eyes, willing herself to banish the memories of that last bloody day in the ICU. ‘ _Candles that smelled of vanilla, polynomials, new brooms, and a rosary of rose petals---she was all of those.’_

Towards the end of the service, the presider signals for Eponine to read her eulogy. Eponine feels a strong kick in her middle as she gets to her feet, and she is sure that everyone is watching as she instinctively touches her belly. ‘ _Like they expect I’m going to pop at any moment,’_ she gripes silently as she ambles to the lectern. She discreetly sets the cards down and grips the edge of the podium before clearing her throat. “Good afternoon everyone. My name is Eponine Thenardier-Enjolras, and like many others such as the Garcia family and the sisters of the Visitation Convent, I’d like to honor a wonderful lady who I and so many others knew as Mother Asuncion.”

She looks up now from the podium to take in the sight of the cramped chapel. Of course the front pews are all occupied by Mother Asuncion’s own relatives, as well as dozens of nuns in purple habits and white wimples; some of them are bowing if only to hide their weeping. To one side are Cecily and the girls from the halfway house. Yet all the way to the back of the chapel are men and women from all walks of life, people who otherwise would not have a reason to come together. Eponine feels her throat go dry but all the same she takes a deep breath before continuing. “I was fifteen years old when Mother Asuncion took me in at the halfway house, Saint Maria Goretti Home for Girls. She took me in, and she’d be the first person to say I drove her up the wall. She always had something to say about everything---whether we girls were simply hiding our homework instead of actually finishing it, if we were playing with her scented candle collection _again_ , or if we were leaving our pillows in our beds when we were actually still someplace up the street.”

She pauses as laughter ripples across the chapel, all the while fighting to keep from swiping at her eyes. “Most of all, she always had something to say about not giving up---she used to say that all of us could walk out or simply sit in a corner, but she for one wasn’t going to give up till we started moving. I don’t think that concept was ever really in her vocabulary. It wasn’t easy for a teenager to digest or appreciate, but the lesson somehow stayed. I for one did not quite understand just how, until many years later when I returned to the halfway house---this time hoping to learn from her. By this time I was already a doctor, and learning how to aid young people who’d been in crisis, like myself and so many others. I thought I would not find anyone to help me, but there she was fifteen years later, still in charge at the halfway house, still known as Mother to the girls as well as her congregation. Most other people would have taken such a span of time to pick up and move elsewhere, after so many years of dealing with all the challenges of raising and saving young people. It was more than just being constant, or being strong, or even trying to make a difference. She believed in something good, looked for it even in difficult people, and if she really had to, she’d make it happen in one way or another. I’m thankful that she saw this too in me, and even if I can’t tell her personally now, it certainly mattered. I’ll never forget that, and nor will most of us here.” The words seem thick now, and it’s another moment before she can find her breath again. “She’ll never be forgotten. Thank you everyone.”

For a few moments the chapel is silent, and it is only as Eponine returns to her seat that she hears the applause and murmuring. The rest of the rites are solemn, until Mother Asuncion’s casket is carried out, accompanied only by the nuns, to be interred in a nearby plot belonging to the congregation.  Eponine looks to see Cecily wheeling herself over to the pew. “Wait, let me---“

Cecily holds up a hand. “I’m fine. I just wanted to say thank you, for helping Mother Asuncion, and even with helping me temporarily place the girls. It’s more than what you were expected to do.”

Eponine sighs deeply. “So the halfway house is temporarily closed.”

“For repairs, but that might be indefinite, unless someone steps up soon. That’s the convent’s call,” Cecily replies bitterly. She looks to where Tess is hanging back from talking to her former roommates. “How is she holding up?”

“She’s been quiet, especially compared to the other girls,” Eponine says. ‘ _Some would say it’s not holding up at all,’_ she thinks, but there is no need to give voice to the worry in Cecily’s countenance. “Maybe all she needs is some time.”

“Not too much time,” Cecily reminds her. “I’ll contact you if I get news, especially from the nuns.”

“We’ll also contact you about the investigation,” Enjolras chimes in. “Thank you too, Cecily.”

In the meantime Eponine notices Tess walking up and running her hands through her hair. “Can we get out of here now, Doc?” the teenager asks.

“About time we did,” Eponine concurs, suddenly feeling so exhausted. ‘ _You haven’t had much time to sit down in three days,’_ she reminds herself throughout the car ride home. Unsurprisingly there hasn’t been much time to cry either.

As soon as they arrive home, Tess flees upstairs to the guest room, slamming the door hard. ‘ _So much for asking her a bit,’_ Eponine notes as she sits down on the living room sofa. She cringes as she glances at the clock; it’s not even four in the afternoon and already she feels exhaustion kicking in. “I’ll lie down for a bit,” she tells Enjolras, who is just taking off his shoes. “Wake me up in an hour. Then I can get started on dinner.”

“Courfeyrac is dropping by; we’ll be discussing how we’ll question Garbe tomorrow,” Enjolras informs her. “We’re probably better off ordering in, even if it’s just pizza.”

“For you boys, pizza is always a solution,” she quips as she ruffles his hair. All the same she’s not about to complain too much if Enjolras wants to take some work off her hands just for today. “You need to rest too, Auguste.”

“In a little while,” he promises before taking her hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles. “You were so strong today.”

“Not like there’s anything else that I can do in this mess,” she says wryly as she begins to loosen his tie. “Thank you for being there today. I know you weren’t close to Mother Asuncion, but she liked you very much too.”

He nods before moving so that she can snuggle up next to him. “Go to sleep.”

She nods before kissing his cheek and then curling up next to him, such that her back is to his chest. It only seems like a few moments have passed before she opens her eyes again to the sound of someone being violently sick in the second floor bathroom. She glances down at Enjolras, who is still dozing on the sofa, before deftly disentangling herself from his arms and then heading upstairs. “Tess!” she calls as she knocks on the bathroom door, only to find it locked. This prompts her to quickly search her dressing table for a hairpin with which to pick the lock, by which time the retching has dwindled into dry heaving.

“Go away Doc,” Tess groans as soon as Eponine gets the door open. “Leave me alone.”

“Not like this,” Eponine mutters, seeing how Tess is hunched over the toilet. The reek of alcohol is overpowering, forcing her to leave the door ajar. “How much have you had?”

Tess’ eyes are bloodshot and bleary as she looks up. “It should have been me. The other girls said so. I stayed away and people still got hurt.”

“Oh Tess, no,” Eponine insists as she sits next to the girl. “They didn’t know the entire story, of the chase and everything.”

Tess shakes her head. “Johannes is dead. Mother Asuncion too. They were good people, better than me. It’s not fair.” She sniffles and wipes her now runny nose. “Why them?”

It’s a question that Eponine knows better than to give an answer to, more so when Tess starts crying again. After a few moments she hears Enjolras walking up to the bathroom. “Auguste, we need some water here,” she whispers furtively as she opens the bathroom door wider.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “I can’t believe she’s doing this.  It is not a good way of grieving.”

“She doesn’t need to hear that now,” Eponine counters.

“He’s right. I’m disgusting. I’m horrible---“Tess begins.

“Now I never said those things,” Enjolras answers firmly. It’s clear he’s fighting to keep a straight face as he goes to help Eponine pull Tess to her feet. “Don’t dishonour Mother Asuncion’s memory like this.”

“Auguste----“ Eponine warns but much to her surprise the words have Tess opening her eyes wider and shaking her head, as if trying to will herself into sobriety. “Take it easy.”

“He’s right about that too,” Tess mutters before making her way to the bathroom sink and splashing water over her face. “I never saw her do this when we’d lose someone.”

“There are vows she had to follow,” Eponine reminds her.

“Doc, they don’t cover Communion wine.” Tess says with a smirk before she closes the toilet lid and sits down. “She’d pray, and I think someone out there heard her, mostly.”

“I’m sure.” Eponine gets a washcloth and drenches it. “In the meantime we’d better get you cleaned up and hydrated.”

“Can’t I just sleep?”

“That’s how you’ll end up miserable in the morning.”

The prospect of a hangover has Tess frowning, as well as acceding to Eponine’s attempts to wash her face, as well as to Enjolras’ offer of several glasses of water. It takes their combined efforts to walk Tess down the hall to the guest room, where she falls asleep almost immediately. Eponine sighs as she covers Tess with a blanket. “You do know that there will come a time when _Ian_ will also do something like this,” she remarks.

“Under less dire circumstances, and perhaps with less intoxication involved,” Enjolras deadpans.

Eponine rolls her eyes knowingly. “More likely having to explain to some teacher or part-time employer about why he won’t take trouble sitting down.”

“I imagine you’ll enjoy that greatly too.”

“Only if it doesn’t involve my having to bandage him up or pick him up from an emergency room.”

“Perish the thought,” Enjolras says over the doorbell’s suddenly ringing downstairs. “That must be Courfeyrac now.”

“You boys decide on the pizza. I’ll watch Tess for a bit, just to make sure she won’t be sick again,” Eponine volunteers. ‘ _Someday she’ll be old enough to do more than simply want to forget,’_ she decides as she sits by the girl’s bed for a few minutes. She still remembers all too well how it felt to demand nepenthe and the frustration with the fragility of such relief. ‘ _Another thing that should have gone a little differently for Tess,’_ she thinks as she finally heads downstairs.

As she quietly walks towards the sound of conversation in the kitchen, she almost laughs on realizing that Combeferre has also dropped in. ‘ _Less work then, but everything serious,’_ she notes silently. It is not often nowadays that Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac get to talk like this, and so she hangs back a little by the kitchen doorway just to listen.

 “As arrogant as it may sound, a security detail or a semblance of it would be a good idea,” Courfeyrac says. “We can’t take any chances/”  

“Just as you said, it’s arrogant, and merely a show of intimidation,” Enjolras retorts.

“So is keeping a gun in the house.”

“Courfeyrac, I hope you’re joking,” Combeferre warns.

“There is a legal way to acquire one. Enjolras doesn’t have to use the firearm either,” Courfeyrac argues.

“I thought that you of all people would be more cautious about that. You have a child in residence,” Combeferre points out. “I’ve seen too many gunshot wounds to even agree to the idea.”

“Alright, but the thing is we’re usually not the ones doing the shooting,” Courfeyrac says after a few moments. “That changes everything.”

“Yes, except the legitimate ways to deal with such provocation,” Enjolras answers.

“With a situation so volatile, you can’t afford to be careless,” Combeferre’s voice says evenly. “Haven’t you at least considered sending Eponine to a safer situation, temporarily?”  

“Its impracticality alone precludes it,” Enjolras replies. “She would never agree to lying low or leaving the city till this investigation is over.”

“Fouche knows she’s linked to your investigation,” Combeferre insists. “He’ll target her first.”

Eponine rolls her eyes at this truism. ‘ _He means well, sometimes too well,’_ she thinks as she finally steps into the doorway. “I suppose he also knows that I am more than just collateral damage in this affair.”

Combeferre pales noticeably while Courfeyrac barely hides a snort. “How long have you been listening?”

“You can guess,” Eponine says nonchalantly as she takes a seat near the kitchen counter. “Courf, I think another important question would be if my sister would approve too. She’s not fond of guns.”

“That is another reason that our house is rigged with alarms and not with ballistics,” Courfeyrac reassures his sister-in-law.

Combeferre sighs as he looks to Enjolras, who is listening with barely disguised amusement. “That is another good idea. A compromise.”

Enjolras nods before finally meeting Eponine’s eyes. “Combeferre’s points are valid though. You know of the threat that Garbe and his companions made when they burgled the law office.”

“I suppose it will only be a threat, especially since Garbe is in prison,” Eponine points out. She puts her hands on the countertop. “I’m not collateral damage, and I’m certainly not a bargaining chip. Nor is Ian. Fouche doesn’t understand that.”

“That is true,” Enjolras says seriously. “You have been with this investigation from the very beginning.”

Eponine nods, seeing now the resolve in her partner’s eyes. ‘ _He won’t shield me, but he’ll fight for me if he must,’_ she realizes. It is a thought that is both heartening and terrifying, yet not as much as the important question that still hangs in the air. “If, _when_ Fouche meets you again, what will you do if he makes a threat?”

“The only thing that is right to do then,” Enjolras replies. “It is an offense, both legal and moral, and I am not going to let that go unaddressed.”

 


	36. Chapter 36

****

**Chapter 36: Raisons**

Inasmuch as Courfeyrac dislikes the over-adulation that the presses tend to lean towards, he feels somewhat relieved on finding several inches of text devoted to the crushing verdict of the Bidault debacle. “Nothing on Fouche,” he remarks as he closes the tab on the online newspaper he has been browsing. “St-Just certainly kept his word.”

Enjolras smiles briefly he also pockets his phone. “He is an eager journalist but also ethical enough to desist or defer publication if necessary.” He nods to a sergeant quickly crossing the corridor of the precinct detention house.  “Is Mr. Garbe ready?”

The police officer rolls his eyes. “He’s a crying mess---has been since he got wind that you would question him. Are you sure you have the right man?”

“I’m certain,” Enjolras replies sternly. “Where is he?”

“Down the hall,” the officer says, gesturing to a door. “You might need some tissue for the wuss.”

“Chocolate is a better cure,” Courfeyrac quips before he follows Enjolras towards the small cubicle. Not even the jailhouse officer’s jibes are quite enough to prepare him for the sight of Simon Garbe holding his manacled hands to his face, his shoulders shaking under his oversized yellow detainees’ t-shirt. “Is everything well, Mr. Garbe?” he asks.

Garbe’s eyes are bloodshot with a wild look as he lifts his head. “They told me I killed that nun.” He wipes his nose and takes a deep shuddering breath. “She was only trying to protect the girls---this one small girl she was hiding, she just wouldn’t run and the gun went off. I only meant to scare her, I swear!”

“Yes, and that shootout? Was that only an attempt too?” Courfeyrac asks in disbelief. “You wounded half a police squad and six civilians!”

Enjolras’ eyes are dark with impassivity as he regards a still wretched looking Garbe. “You were spotted at the fifth precinct, near the market. You traversed half the city before reaching the halfway house. Along your route there were many other avenues to make a getaway, yet you headed downtown. A most unlikely direction to flee.”

Garbe pales as he looks up sharply at Enjolras. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Did you have another reason to go to the halfway house?” Enjolras asks more sternly.

The accused man takes a few deep breaths. “Even if I tell, it will not matter. No one will be able to protect me.”

“How you will be protected will depend on what you will reveal,” Courfeyrac chimes in. “That is the reward for making a proper testimony of it.”

Garbe shakes his head. “Pretty words. Do you think you can go up against the man who told me to go there, to that place?”

“So you were acting under orders---to do what?” Enjolras asks quickly.

“You do not stand a chance---“

“Mr. Garbe, I asked a direct question.”

Garbe gives Enjolras a vehement look. “You know already! The girl! That one who was with Johannes! And yes, I killed him, and under orders too. Does that satisfy you, Attorney?”

“You have my thanks for the confirmation,” Enjolras answers. “Johannes was murdered before there was any way of knowing whether he succeeded or not in fatally shooting Magnussen. Therefore this was not an attempt at fixing a bungled assassination, but a cover-up.”

The hitman pulls uselessly at his handcuffs. “He would have died anyway, whether I picked him up or not,” he growls. “The way I see it, I did him a favor, for a few months at least.”

Enjolras’ brow furrows. “Let me rephrase my question. Who ordered Johannes to shoot Magnussen?”

 Garbe laughs. “I did. As I said, I was under orders.”

“Now suddenly you are short of words,” Courfeyrac says curtly, now thoroughly infuriated with this roundabout. “This only means two things: either you are hiding something, or you truly are out of the loop. In the first case, this would force us to set all the charges on you, and only you thanks to the lack of any co-conspirators. Then if the second one is true, we have no use to question you and we can send you on your merry way. It does not sound like a safe city out there for you.”

Garbe sits up straight. “Are you threatening me?”

“No, he is merely stating the odds,” Enjolras deadpans. “As it is, you are of no practical use to your former employer, and to return to the line of security work with a taint on your record will not do. Being convicted will not serve you well. Your best chance is to stand as a witness.”  

“A witness, like those that Johannes murdered when he blew up the outside of the courthouse,” Garbe mocks. “What is to stop my successor from rubbing me out in the same way?”

 “Your employer. He has much to account for.”

The former bodyguard is quiet for several long moments.  “Magnussen was about to use him for his own interests. I merely prevented that,” he finally says. “Under orders.”

‘ _If I hear that line one more time, I just might have to deck him,’_ Courfeyrac tells himself. “So you will testify when this case goes to court?” he asks.

“You sound so sure,” Garbe says with a sneer.

“That will do,” Enjolras says, putting a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Give this situation thorough consideration. We will be back tomorrow,” he tells Garbe before getting up to leave the room.

Courfeyrac quickly follows Enjolras out of the room, and is hardly surprised to see a thoughtful yet knowing look on his colleague’s face. “Garbe is right. You already knew everything,” he tells him.

“Certainly. I only needed the confirmation,” Enjolras replies in a matter-of-fact tone.

Courfeyrac chuckles as they exit the detention facility. “I remember what they used to say about cross examinations: never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to,” he remarks even as he already feels his phone beginning to buzz in his pocket. Much to his surprise it’s Azelma’s number that he finds on the screen. “Hello my dear. To what do I owe this pleasant surprise in the middle of a school day?” he greets her.

“You owe it to R,” Azelma replies, her tone one of disbelief. “He’s here in the school cafeteria with me, and he’s been trying to get a hold of you and Enjolras, but neither of you picked up till just now. There’s no use calling my sister since she’s probably either scrubbing in or meeting with the nuns about the halfway house girls.”

Courfeyrac glances at Enjolras, who apparently has also just discovered the missed calls on his own phone. “Why didn’t he just use his own number?”

“Darren dumped his phone into a fishbowl. You know how four year olds can be,” Azelma replies mirthfully. “Anyway he wants to meet up with you guys now. I can’t keep him and Darren here at the school all day.”

Courfeyrac laughs again on hearing Grantaire in the background, calling for Darren to get out from under a table. “Why is R in such a hurry?”

“Because he says he heard something you boys need to know about that businessman Fouche,” Azelma says in a low, hushed tone. “Just get here, please.”

“Right away.” Courfeyrac ends the call and smiles on seeing Enjolras’ puzzled expression. “It’s not Zel’s doing, it’s Grantaire’s. Apparently he has learned something about Fouche, but his phone is out of commission. That’s why he asked Azelma for help.”

One of Enjolras’ eyebrows shoots up. “It is unlike him to go to such great lengths.”

“Enjolras, you should get more used to surprises these days,” Courfeyrac points out. “He and Darren are hanging out with Azelma. We should bail them out before her lunch break is over.”

“I hope this has not inconvenienced Azelma too greatly,” Enjolras points out.

“She did not sound cross about it,” Courfeyrac replies. In truth this is a more startling development, especially considering Azelma’s reluctance to have anything to do with this investigation. _‘I shall have to make it up to her,’_ he decides as he follows Enjolras to where the latter has parked his car.

The noontime traffic ensures that it is nearly one in the afternoon by the time they reach the schoolhouse. They find Azelma and Grantaire both sitting in the sandbox, keeping a careful eye on Alexandra as she crawls about, as well as Darren as he tries to build sand sculptures. “That looks like something we should get for the house,” Courfeyrac quips as he walks up to them.

“For you or for Alex?” Azelma asks. She reaches over to dust some sand off Grantaire’s shirt. “Spill. This better be good.”

Grantaire seats Darren on his lap before grinning triumphantly at Enjolras and Courfeyrac. “I have caught Fouche trying to arrange a match between Hermes and Eumonia.”

It takes Courfeyrac a moment to recall the Greek deities for commerce and civil order, respectively. “Are you saying that he’s trying to make some sort of deal with the government or someone there?”

“That is too ambitious. Simply with the vacant chair of Magnussen---that is, his potential successor.”

Enjolras clears his throat. “Firstly, how did you come by this information?”

 “Darren and I were painting at the Botanical Garden today, when we saw Lafayette and his Minister of Science and Technology looking over the hydroponics yard,” Grantaire begins as he bounces his son. “They were talking of the vacant chair that poor Magnussen left, and the men who just might fill it. Fouche has a seat-warmer in mind; he was there and he handed his friend’s credentials to Lafayette.”

“Without some actual documentation of this encounter, this is still hearsay and cannot be used as evidence,” Enjolras points out. “It will be your word against everyone’s on the investigation.”

“I’m a poor herald, but I may be a sibyl just yet,” Grantaire insists. “The man is Gordon Raymont. You might have heard of him as having the singular credit of being animated carbon with the power of speech, and little else.”

“Associated with Magnussen, Bidault, and of course Fouche, but his name is free of notoriety.” Enjolras mutters with a knowing smirk. “What did Lafayette say?”

“That the matter would be decided on by the end of this month,” Grantaire replies. He counts on his fingers.” This leaves you less than two weeks.”

“Ten days to figure out this Raymont,” Courfeyrac concurs. “Is there anything else?” he asks, seeing that Enjolras has brought out his phone.

“This turn of events is crucial. There are many upcoming hearings set on government contracts and procurements, and a Minister of Trade is needed---there are too many parties who will want one who is malleable to some interest,” Enjolras notes. He looks at Grantaire curiously. “You said that you would not interfere in this venture.”

“Man is a creature of opportunity and I am no exception,” Grantaire says, making a slight bow. “Besides, who am I to hinder a knight in his quest?”

“I would hardly call this errantry.”

“I believe otherwise where you’re concerned.”

In the meantime Courfeyrac moves to where Azelma is now crouching next to Alexandra, ready to catch the little girl as she pushes herself to her feet. “You didn’t have to make the call,” he whispers when she looks at him.

“I had to,” Azelma replies.

Courfeyrac swallows hard as he takes in the trepidation mingled with silent triumph in her eyes. It’s not something he has seen in her since this case began. “No, Zel. Why?”

Azelma smiles as she touches his chin and moves her hand down to his chest, right where he can feel the beating of his heart. “You’re a good man, and who am I to stop _you_?”

 


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37: A Game of Evidence**

As far as Combeferre is concerned, the biggest drawback to being a junior consultant is his suddenly gaining an unwarranted reputation for stringency and terror. ‘ _Mostly because the younger consultants are often said to be more terrifying and prone to power-tripping than their seniors,’_ he reminds himself as he watches a team of interns scurry off to their duties after morning ward rounds. While he has not heard any particular complaints about his behaviour he can still feel the newfound distance between him and younger doctors like Navet; the candor and banter that once existed between them as residents now has an air of formality that is as unwelcome as it is expected.

After making one last check of his notes he goes over to the nurses’ station, where Eponine is explaining some orders to the head nurse on duty. “You’re done with rounds already?” he greets, noticing the pile of charts near his friend’s elbow.

“I need an early start since I’m the one on call today,” she explains with a smile as she starts putting the charts back on a stand. “It’s your turn tomorrow, so you should take it easy.”

“You on the other hand need to slow down,” he points out. “Standing for too long ups the odds of going into premature labor.”

Eponine rolls her eyes. “In other parts of the world, pregnant women work in the fields standing _and_ carrying loads---all the way till full term.” She dusts off her hands with a smile. “I bet that when you and Florence have kids, she’s going to be teaching almost up to her due date.”

This prospect has Combeferre blanching, but even then he knows this is a battle already lost. “So who is Auguste terrorizing today?”

“The fiscal,” Eponine replies. “All the depositions basically say that Fouche engineered that attempted murder of Magnussen as well as what happened to Johannes. He’ll be doing a lot of time for those, on top of what he’ll get for his labor and civil cases.”

“That is progress.”

“Oh it is, but now we need to find out what all of this is leading up to.”

“Are you saying that there’s an even _bigger_ plan that Fouche has up his sleeve?” Combeferre asks in disbelief. “That’s already in the realm of conspiracy theory.”

“It’s just differential diagnosis, Combeferre. When you have all these things going on, it’s something like a syndrome. One has to find the underlying cause and treat it.” Eponine bites her lip before speaking again. “From my experience, people don’t resort to murdering close friends unless they’re truly desperate. I want to know what’s made Fouche so desperate. I think it’s because of the appointee that Lafayette still hasn’t confirmed.”

 Combeferre sighs deeply. “Don’t bite off more than you two can chew,” he warns as he and Eponine head down to the surgery department’s main office, where they are set to listen to some reports from their senior residents. While waiting for the rest of the group to arrive Eponine sets up her laptop while Combeferre mixes up a cup of coffee. Just as he sits down with a large mug of the brew he hears Eponine swearing as she taps repeatedly on her computer’s touchpad. “This hospital still needs to score a better deal on broadband,” he points out.

“Someone moved or took down a file in the Ministry of Trade’s database. This year’s gazettes of bidding and procurements are gone.” She shakes her head as she types in another code into the browser’s navigation bar, only to come up with another error screen. “Someone has been fiddling with this.”

“Maybe it’s just site maintenance?”

“Maybe but everything else still works, even other gazettes.”

“Check again,” Combeferre suggests calmly. Even so the timing of this little change is ominous, and he cannot quite bring himself to look away as Eponine tries to access some other parts of the ministry’s database, then sets to saving and backing up files. In the middle of everything he hears a phone ring but Eponine picks it up before he can get to it.  She hums and then sighs while she sets down the receiver. “ER call?” he asks warily.

“Navet thinks that this case will be of particular interest to me,” Eponine replies as she grabs her work tote and heads to the door. “I’ll catch up with the lecture. Don’t mind me.”

Combeferre nods as Eponine shuts the door, and then gets up to check the bulletin boards, which are filled with memos and schedules. This quick survey followed by a surreptitious trip to the operating room complex tells him that all the residents are still scrubbed in for various elective and routine procedures. Having nothing better to do, he hurries downstairs towards the emergency room, only to be greeted by the sight of one of the janitors mopping up crimson stains from the lobby floor.  “What happened?” he asks.

“Break in, Doc,” the janitor replies, shaking his head. “Someone tried to break into Doc E’s office.”

Combeferre’s jaw drops as he looks around, and that’s when he sees an ominous red trail from the office door all the way to the emergency room entrance. ‘ _Was there some sort of fight?’_ he wonders as he rushes into the rather quiet emergency room. Sitting on a cot is a spindly man in a blood-spattered long sleeved shirt and slacks, cursing vehemently as Eponine and Navet stitch up his wounded hand. “Was he alone?” he asks.

Navet nods. “He stumbled in here, yelling about the wounds.”

The frustrated thief gives the young surgeon a poisonous look. “Can’t you give me general anaesthesia and be done with it?”

“That’s unnecessary,” Eponine snaps. “Remember that next time you try poking around in people’s things instead of asking for them.”

It is only now that Combeferre gets a proper look at this criminal’s injuries: there are thin but deep gashes across his fingers and the upper part of his palm. ‘ _Only a blade can do that,’_ he realizes as he inspects the injury. “Knife slipped?”

The criminal swears and whimpers. “I wish that it was!”

“I’ll show you in a little bit,” Eponine replies as she ties off a line of stitches. She finishes suturing another wound before leaving Navet to dress and bandage the injuries. “The hospital security will pick him up. Keep him here till then,” she instructs as she takes off her gloves and tosses them into a bin.

“You’re oddly calm about this,” Combeferre observes as he follows Eponine to her office. He watches as she fishes a pair of forceps out of her work tote and yanks at something attached to the inside of the handle of the topmost desk drawer. “What is that?”

“This _bit_ him, as we used to say,” Eponine says triumphantly as she sets down a bloodied scalpel blade on the desk top. “It’s neater than a box cutter blade.”

“You _booby-trapped_ your desk?” Combeferre sputters.

“What does it look like? He wasn’t supposed to be poking around here anyway!”

“What if someone else had come along, like one of our cleaning staff or even one of your patients? They could have gotten hurt!”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t rig the doorknob or anything else,” Eponine retorts. “If you look, everything here has a lock, even the drawers, but I _know_ how easy it is to pick those. That’s why I had to do a little bit more.”

Combeferre gapes with disbelief as he takes a seat, but then again he figures he should have expected such a thing from his friend, especially given her considerably gritty experience. “So you knew, you guessed that something like this would happen, today specifically?”

“Mostly since Auguste and Courf now have the evidence,” Eponine replies. “Now I suppose I shall have to think of another scheme, and move the files again.”

“Where did you put them?”

“I’d rather that you guess.”

‘ _This is why arguing with her was always dangerous in more ways than one,’_ Combeferre recalls. “How much longer till this case wraps up?”

“It depends on the fiscal.” She looks up in time to see Musichetta and Joly now standing in the doorway, watching this entire scene incredulously. “News travels fast.”  

“We could hear the commotion all the way down from the obstetrics ward,” Musichetta replies. Her eyes dart from the blade on the desk to the stains on the floor. “That’s _nasty!”_

“Did you remember to give him a tetanus shot?” Joly asks.

“That was the first thing Navet did, just to rile him up,” Eponine quips.

“Good. Tetanus is a very bad way to go---not the worst but we’ve seen enough of it,” Joly remarks, cringing slightly at the memories that are certainly coming to mind. “Combeferre, I’ve got some forms you need to fill out about the antibiotics you’re using for your patients. Infection control.”

“You’ll have it in a while,” Combeferre says as he holds out his hand for the papers. “Is the rest of your desk safe to use?” he asks Eponine, who is carefully wrapping up the soiled scalpel blade.

Eponine pats one side of the tabletop. “You’re best off here.” She checks her phone and shakes her head. “Ward call. Just lock this door on the way out, guys,” she says as she picks up her things again.

Joly whistles as he watches her leave. “If this is happening, then that means the case is coming to a head,” he says. “Bossuet has been up and about working on it.”

‘ _While I’m here watching and feeling like I’m just waiting to clean up the mess,’_ Combeferre almost says bitterly. “You guys are safe now. You’ve taken care of Clara and Macky, and now the rest of the story is in the hands of the law.”

“If ‘safe’ means never being in danger, then that’s never going to happen,” Musichetta retorts. “We knew this when we all signed up to work here in Saint Michel years ago instead of staying at the Hospital Royale. We wanted to help and learn, not have easy lives.”

“Besides, if we stayed on at the Hospital Royale, so many things would have gone differently. Enjolras would not be alive today, for one thing,” Joly says, holding up a thumb. “Courf and Azelma might not have met, and then we wouldn’t have Alex. Elodie Chenier might have died, then that would mean that Marius and Cosette wouldn’t have their daughter. You might not have met Florence. In the end, I think this is all for the best.”

“I want to be able to say that when we’re _all_ old and gray,” Combeferre points out.

“We’ll get there,” Joly promises. He winces at a screech coming from the general direction of the emergency room. “Not so sure about the guy they’re stitching up. He’d best reconsider his line of work.”

Combeferre doesn’t say anything for a few minutes as he finishes filling out the forms and then hands them back to Joly. “I may as well ask if there’s a new betting pool going on.”

Musichetta and Joly exchange looks. “Your name is in it. Are you sure?” Musichetta teases.

“I bet twenty that the next wedding will be Bahorel and Karen’s,” Combeferre says as he brings out his wallet. He’s not sure why this is something he can easily see happening. “I think it’s going to be a while till Elodie, Alex, or Darren will get a younger sibling.”

Joly nods solemnly as he pockets the bill that Combeferre hands to him. “The next ramen night is at Karen’s place. She offered to host.”

“That should be quite the experience,” Combeferre concurs as he and his friends leave the room, taking to lock the door just as Eponine instructed. ‘ _One of these days Florence and I should have our turn too,’_ he decides silently as he heads back up to the office. It would only be fair after all.

When he next sees Eponine, it’s much later in the afternoon at the hospital cafeteria. Even from afar he can easily spot Eponine seated at her favourite table in the corner, talking avidly to her husband. Enjolras is the one who notices Combeferre first and he waves to him. “News.”

“It’s an odd day when you don’t have any,” Combeferre points out as he takes a seat. “Were you able to get a warrant for Fouche?”

“Only for some of the charges,” Enjolras replies grimly before taking a sip of his coffee. “More importantly though, Fouche intends to meet with Lafayette himself by the end of the week. He wants his man’s appointment confirmed.”

“In short his puppet,” Eponine chimes in with disgust. “I bet he’d go over for a position himself.”

“Legally that would be a conflict of interest,” Enjolras points out.

“Is that going to stop him?” Eponine scoffs. “It makes sense that he would erase the database or do something to it. I contacted Gavroche and I found out that some of the access codes he’s got don’t work anymore. It shouldn’t usually be the case!”

A chill courses down Combeferre’s back. “You’re running out of time then. Even if you nab Fouche---“

“It won’t do any good without the evidence,” Enjolras finishes. He takes a sip of his coffee again. “I have set up a meeting with him in two days. In the meantime there is a task that _all_ of us should do.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38: Deal of a Lifetime**

“I know we’ve done a lot of crazy things in the past few years, but this is the first time anyone of us has actually stepped in as _bait_.”

“It’s not actually baiting. It’s being a red herring.”

On the other side of the lanai at the Fauchelevents’ house, Enjolras fights to keep a straight face while Courfeyrac and Feuilly continue this debate on nomenclature. “The aim is not to attract or mislead Fouche; he will be arrested today regardless of this meeting’s outcome. Before that can happen though, he may do a great deal of additional damage, and that is precisely what we must avert,” he chimes in as he finally looks up from his laptop, which is full of files collated from various friends and contacts involved with this case. “Should he escape and flee to another country, all our present work will be necessary to provide evidence for extraditing him.”

Courfeyrac winces at this idea even as he stirs his coffee. “Another thorny tangle. I am sure he is counting on that as a last resort.”

Feuilly shakes his head.  “If he has bodyguards around, you might be best off making the meeting short,” he warns Enjolras. “Men like him have a way of arranging well timed accidents.”

‘ _That move would be too obvious,’_ Enjolras muses silently even as he turns to see Eponine ambling into the lanai. “How is everything?”  

“Gav and Mr. Fauchelevent are just rechecking some of the codes in his office. We should be able to back up the archives in a matter of minutes,” Eponine replies, pointing behind her. “Fantine actually got Elodie _and_ Tess to sit down and watch some musicals. She said that she’s making some popcorn as a bribe for us to join them,” she adds in a more mischievous undertone as she takes a seat near his.

 “Now that is a proper way to spend the rest of this morning,” Courfeyrac quips as he tosses a cushion to his sister-in-law. “After that of course,” he says, giving his friend’s laptop a baleful look.

A quick glance at his watch is enough to tell Enjolras that it is now half past ten, just an hour before his meeting with Fouche. He takes a deep breath as he gets to his feet and checks to make sure that he has his wallet, his phone, and his keys. “Keep the lines open. The others might need to call in here,” he instructs firmly. He clasps Courfeyrac’s arm. “The evidence will need to be sorted once it is all accounted for. It will make matters easier for the fiscal.”

“Right away.” Courfeyrac bumps his fist against Enjolras’. “Call for backup if you need it. We’ll make sure someone gets to you.”

Feuilly touches his knuckles to his forehead by way of a salute. “Stay safe, Chief.”  

Eponine stands up slowly and hugs Enjolras tightly, burying her nose in his red shirt. As he pulls her closer he can’t help but breathe in the smell of lavender and rainwater lingering in her hair. “You’ve gotten him good already. I know it,” she whispers in his ear. “Now please, just make sure I won’t have to stitch you up when you get back.”

Enjolras nods before kissing her forehead. “Of course.” His hand brushes against the curve of Eponine’s belly and for a moment he catches a rush of movement under his fingers. Nevertheless he wills himself to step away and head to the door. There is still much he has to do before he can feel truly assured that all will be well.

He has asked to meet Fouche at the ground floor of his corporation’s tower, located at the heart of the city’s finance street. ‘ _The top floor offices would have been impressive but cliche,’_ he notes as he parks a block away from the building. As he crosses the street he spots a single police car waiting at the corner. As he passes, he allows himself only a slight nod at Bahorel and Karen. Bahorel is in his usual t-shirt and pants attire while Karen is wearing a long trench coat. For all appearances, they are simply two hangers on sipping coffee while apparently watching the goings on all along the curb.

As soon as Enjolras steps inside the glass tower, a nervous looking receptionist directs him to a corridor winding away from the lobby to a staircase at the rear of the building. At last he is shown into a small mezzanine furnished with a large round table and several suede covered chairs.  A large glass window looks out onto the bustling lobby below. It is this view that Fouche seems to be contemplating until he turns at the sound of the door shutting. “Good morning Attorney Enjolras. I trust you did not have trouble finding this place?” he greets courteously. “Please, have a seat.”

Enjolras simply smiles as he remains standing. “It is good that you agreed to this discussion on such short notice.”

The businessman chuckles as he tugs on his blue tie. “I wanted to take the opportunity to congratulate you. You are a remarkably tenacious and thorough investigator. It is a pity that we are apparently at cross purposes.”

“Not if the purpose is to bring a murder to justice.” Enjolras pauses as a flicker of surprise plays across Fouche’s face. “You already know that the consequences of this investigation are unequivocal as far as the law is concerned.”

“That is unfortunate then for Garbe,” Fouche answers stiffly.

“He acted according to a plan, one that relied on impunity for its success,” Enjolras points out. “That has no place in any sort of business arrangement in this day and age.”

“You should know there is no room for temerity in business. Your father’s example should have taught you that,” Fouche says briskly. He powers up a tablet and sets it down on the desk. “At a single command, I can run an app to delete all the files in the national archives it is synced to. Your evidence will disappear. You will then become a laughingstock for having a man arrested on a baseless charge. I am sure my legal counsel will enjoy dealing with this situation.”

The weight of Fouche’s words hangs in the air, prompting Enjolras to take a look at the tablet. He frowns at the sight of a brightly colored screen with several commands, including one ominously marked as ‘Delete Synced Files’. “Is it that simple?” he challenges.

“It could be simpler. You need not say anything.” Fouche crosses his arms. “Drop the case. I will deal with Garbe myself.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at this bald-faced demand. “I am afraid that is not possible.”

“It will be once you consider my terms. I have inconvenienced you greatly with this debacle, and I would make amends by relieving you of your difficulties, whatever they are. The very same people who would condemn you for coming forward with no evidence will be the same people who’ll lift you up---as per my recommendation.” Fouche smiles as he picks up the tablet once more. “If not for you, then your child. I will personally make sure that he or she will want for nothing. Toys, travel, the best schooling, a placement in my firm----all of that and more, I will give if you’d allow it.”

‘ _Some would call it a deal of a lifetime,’_ Enjolras realizes. He could easily see this grand vision playing out, perhaps because it is not entirely unfamiliar to him. Yet it is enough for him to look Fouche in the eye. “No. I will not allow my son to pay this price.”

Fouche’s eyes narrow as he presses on the screen of his tablet. “I thought you were a reasonable man,” he glowers. “How then do you expect to end your investigation?”

Enjolras is silent for a moment even as he hears a single beep coming from his phone. He glances down only to find this message: _It is done_. He looks straight at Fouche once more. “You lose.”

Fouche wheels around only to be greeted now by the sight of police officers now entering the lobby. “What is this about?”

“The crime you cannot hide with that toy of yours,” Enjolras replies as he throws the door open, just in time to let in Karen, followed by another officer and Bahorel. “The evidence is with Eponine and Courfeyrac. They will forward the files to you shortly,” he informs them.

“Thank you, Attorney Enjolras,” Karen says. She holds up her badge even as Fouche steps away from the table and backs against the wall. “Christian Fouche, you are under arrest for the murder of Johannes Grayson and the attempted murder of Charles Magnussen. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say and do can and will be used against you in a court of law.”


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39: Welcome**

Eponine knows better than to hope that the days will slow down following Fouche’s arrest; on the contrary the proceedings of the arraignment and the trial zoom by so fast, leaving everyone still reeling by the time the Christmas rush begins. “After all of that, I feel I _could_ use a long vacation,” she jokes with Cosette when the latter comes to visit two days after Christmas.

“You’re supposed to be stocking up on sleep. In two weeks or so you’ll be remembering this,” Cosette quips, eyeing her friend’s rounded belly. “To think you even went to the halfway house party and the hospital benefit!”

“I couldn’t miss those, especially when I’m about to go on leave,” Eponine points out as she puts up her feet. _“_ Normally I’m stuck on duty. Last year was the first time I wasn’t scrubbed in all Christmas Eve, and I actually got to see Gavroche carolling in our ward. I’m glad he brought all his officemates this year.”

“I wish I’d seen that, instead of just a recording of it,” Cosette notes. She fishes in her bag for her tablet and opens up a photo gallery. “We don’t have many pictures of this year’s Christmas dinner, mostly because we were laughing so much.”

‘ _Those are the best sorts of occasions,’_ Eponine thinks gleefully as she takes the tablet from Cosette. As she scrolls through the pictures she rubs her back with one hand to ease a growing twinge there. “Good thing you talked me into getting that green dress. It made me look less like a blimp,” she mutters as she comes across a snapshot of herself helping Elodie and Darren arrange presents underneath the Christmas tree.

“The color has always looked good on you,” Cosette comments. She laughs as Eponine flips to a picture of Grantaire, Jehan, Bossuet, Gavroche, Florence, and Tess frowning as they upend empty glasses. “Was that because of Enjolras’ eggnog recipe?”

The mere mention of this has Eponine rolling her eyes. “Unfortunately lots of cinnamon and nutmeg don’t exactly make up for the lack of a touch of alcohol.” She grins as she comes across a picture of Bahorel kissing Karen so hard that he has to hold her up against a doorjamb. A sprig of mistletoe hangs conspicuously above their heads. “They stole that. I know that Courf was trying to push Combeferre and Florence under it. Considering how Bahorel and Karen were when they left the party, it’s probably safe to say that it’s only today we can finally contact them.” 

“Eponine, really!” Cosette exclaims. She is quiet for a moment when she slides to a photo of herself with her parents as well as Marius and Elodie, sitting under the wreaths and garlands at the front door. “Enjolras sent this to Marius this morning; it was the best take among the rest. I really want to get a picture like this every year.”

“A new tradition?” Eponine asks as she continues looking through the next pictures: first there is one of herself, Azelma, and Gavroche seated on the stairs, then of Azelma, Courfeyrac, and Alexandra in the lanai, followed by one of Combeferre and Florence under the Christmas tree. Then there is a whole series of pictures of Feuilly, Navet, and Tess goofing off, and then a hilarious photo story of Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta trying to assemble a chocolate tableau on the table, culminating with most of the dessert getting on Bossuet’s hands and face. Next up is a video of Jehan and Grantaire singing ‘ _Feliz Navidad’_ with Darren keeping up using sign language. She smiles widely on finding a number of photos of Enjolras with their friends; in some of the more candid shots he’s let all his guard down and is actually laughing. It’s a sight that is becoming more and more frequent as of late, and Eponine is nothing but thankful for it. “He should get in front of the camera more often, even if he’s the one who’s the best photographer here.”

“So should you,” Cosette comments as she moves the display to show a candid picture of Eponine and Enjolras lighting a row of candles surrounding a centrepiece. “Next year it won’t be just you two.”

“I don’t think we’ll get to stand around for pictures, what with a kid who is just learning to walk,” Eponine points out. She frowns as she feels the ache in her back again. “Your mom was saying that you might all go out of town for New Year’s Eve?”

“Only up to the Hilltop View---that’s near the chapel where Marius and I had our wedding. The view of the fireworks is lovely from there,” Cosette explains. “You guys----“

“Did someone say New Year?” Tess chimes in as she bounds down the stairs, holding up her phone. She puts on a childish grin as she sits near Eponine. “I got a text from Aimee. She and the girls were invited to a street party on the 31st.”

“Where?” Eponine asks. “And who’ll be with you?”

Tess rolls her eyes. “It’s at the Cineplex---you know that place downtown. Miss Cecily will be there anyway, so it’s safe.”

“As long as Cecily is there, then it’s good.”

“Got it, _Mom_.”

“Shut up. I didn’t birth you when I was thirteen!” Eponine retorts, only to have Tess cackle and stick out her tongue as she plops down in the reading nook and sticks a borrowed set of headphones into a music player. The doctor rolls her eyes dramatically when she sees Cosette just barely able to keep a straight face.  “This is delayed payback for my teenage years, I’m sure of it.”

“You had fun,” Cosette says, only to fall silent when Eponine rubs her back again. “Are you already having contractions?” she asks. 

“Not really,” Eponine replies slowly as she feels the twinge begin to abate. “They’re on and off, and I don’t think these really count as labor,” she adds with a smile. ‘ _Though how is that supposed to really feel anyway?’_ she wonders more worriedly as she gets to her feet and goes to get a look at her reflection in a glass windowpane. She puts a hand on her stomach, only to feel a rush of apprehension on finding the swell of her midsection to rest just a little lower than before. “Ian, can’t you wait till _after_ the New Year?” she gripes.

Cosette fishes for her keys. “If you need to go the hospital now, I can take you there.”

Eponine shakes her head. “This doesn’t mean anything. I’ll just get sent home and be told to observe. No use waiting around in the labor room for something that could take days,” she points out. ‘ _I might have just jinxed that, though’_ she realizes as she sits down again on the sofa. Now she can certainly feel the difference in her body; all this languor and that odd feeling of something giving in her hips are leading up to something that is now nearer than she is prepared to admit.

In the meantime Cosette waves to Enjolras, who is apparently back from an early morning meeting, if the way he is reading through a portfolio is any indicator. “I’m invading your kitchen,” she announces. “Eponine has no business being on her feet today.”

Enjolras quickly sets aside the document he is studying. “How are you? Is it time to go to the hospital yet?” he asks worriedly as he goes over to his wife.

“No, and you’ll certainly know when it is,” Eponine replies as she reaches over to undo his tie. “Staring at me like that and wearing a hole in the floor isn’t going to speed things up. There’s still a pretty high chance that I’ll only give birth after New Year.”  

“I’m just making sure that this kid doesn’t get born in this house, or worse, in our car,” Enjolras retorts as he moves to sit next to her while Cosette excuses herself to take a look at the cupboards. “Azelma had Alex a whole month early, and there is supposedly some risk for you with that family history.”

“The fine print in the literature says the risk isn’t proven,” Eponine points out even as she shifts to allow him to pull her into his arms. She pinches his arm lightly when he rests his chin on top of her head. “You’ve seen a baby being born before. You’re not the one who is pregnant but you’re fretting more about it than I am!”

“Firstly, I’ve only seen _one_ child being born, you yourself have delivered a few---you said maybe fifty---during your training. Secondly, you can feel what is happening but all I can do is watch. Last of all, I know you will need help, if only for safety’s sake,” Enjolras argues.  “It helps to be somewhat mentally prepared for all of this.”

Eponine huffs even as she squirms in an attempt to get more comfortable, but when she looks up at Enjolras she swallows hard on seeing the worry written in his features. “It’s going to be fine, Auguste. Women go through this all the time.” She bites her lip as she feels that twinge again, just a little stronger now than before. “There’s no use fussing about something perfectly natural.”

“Something ‘natural’ shouldn’t hurt that much.”

“A lot of the times movies just play it up. As for my sister, she’s always had a different pain threshold.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying that with a straight face,” Enjolras quips before planting a kiss on her neck. “I’ll just straighten up some things upstairs. Will you be fine here?”  

“Yell if you need help,” Eponine jokes as she moves to allow him to get off the seat. She shifts in an attempt to get comfortable, which is easier said than done with the cramp-like feeling in her back. It takes a while till she finally falls asleep, only to wake up to an unmistakable squeeze in her midsection. ‘ _Oh gosh has it only been an hour?’_ she wonders as she checks her watch. She lies still for a little longer till once again she feels that ache in her stomach, prompting her to put a hand on her belly in time to catch the telltale tautness there that could only come from a contraction. This time it’s all she can do to bite her lip despite the pain that is starting to make her eyes water. A glance at her watch tells her that this has all happened within the span of seven minutes. ‘ _Here it goes,’_ she tells herself as she stands up after a while and heads towards the kitchen.

In the kitchen Cosette is making a pot of soup while Enjolras is trying to make croutons using the toaster oven. Tess is out in the backyard, talking loudly on the phone; judging by the turn of the conversation it is Aimee on the other end of the line. Eponine goes to get herself a glass of water, only to end up stopping to lean on the kitchen counter when pain grips her again. “I think someone insists on being born today,” she manages to say through gritted teeth.

Enjolras slams the door of the toaster oven shut and rushes to take Eponine’s hand. “How often is this happening?” he asks her once she starts to breathe more easily.

“Seven minutes,” Eponine replies, though in truth it is starting to feel like a lot sooner. “It might be a bit early still, but I’d like to call Musichetta.”

Enjolras hands his phone to her. “Will she be at work today?”

“She’s on call, so she can come in any time for her patients, but that doesn’t mean she’ll be on the floor doing rounds or OPD visits,” Eponine replies as she begins to scroll for their friend’s number. It takes three rings till Musichetta picks up. “Hey Chetta. Eponine here, I’m just borrowing Auguste’s phone,” she greets, glancing to where Enjolras is putting the hot croutons on a plate to cool. “I think it’s time for you to get back to work. I’m having contractions every seven minutes.”

Musichetta clucks her tongue. “Nothing else?”

“Nope. That’s still early right?”

“Could be. Call me and go to the hospital right away if the contractions come every five minutes, or if your water breaks, whichever happens first.”

‘ _That’s not going to be long then,’_ Eponine realizes. “Thanks a lot. I’ll keep you updated,” she says before hanging up.  She takes a deep breath just to catch a whiff of the savory tomato soup that Cosette is spooning into bowls. “Is that your mom’s recipe?”

Cosette nods as she sets down a bowl on the table. “You should have some, if your stomach can still stand it,” she advises. “It will help keep your strength up.”

Eponine smiles before taking a cautious sip of the soup and then dropping a generous helping of croutons into her bowl. By this time Tess is also setting down her own serving of soup, but instead of eating she is eyeing her cautiously. “Something wrong?” Eponine asks.

Tess stirs her soup. “You look like crap, Doc. Are you going to pop or something?”

Before Eponine can answer this she feels yet another contraction that has her setting down her spoon and leaning back in her chair till the ache slowly abates. “I’m fine,” she finally says.

“Fuck no. I remember the last time a girl had a baby at the halfway house,” Tess drawls. “Screamed the whole place down till Miss Cecily could get her to a lying-in clinic.”

‘ _Wouldn’t be the first time that sort of thing has happened,’_ Eponine thinks as she checks her watch. “Still seven minutes. No drama yet.”

“Is that supposed to be a good thing?” Enjolras asks, looking as if he is about to get up from his seat.

“For now, so just go finish your lunch,” Eponine replies, grabbing his elbow to keep him in his chair. She looks at Tess, who is now stirring her soup thoughtfully. ‘ _Surely she can manage on her own for one night?’_ she wonders quietly. “Tess, do you have plans tonight?” she asks.

Tess grins gleefully. “Number one, eat all the pizza I can. Number two, put my feet up on your sofa while marathoning all the Korean dramas you hate. Number three, keep the music on all night---“

“Very well illustrated,” Enjolras deadpans. “No guests though, and no alcohol. Are we clear?”

Tess nods. “Like crystal.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay over at my place?” Cosette offers.

Tess scowls but Eponine shakes her head. “Cosette, she’ll be fine. She’s old enough.” She takes a few more spoonfuls of soup before pushing away her bowl. “I think I’d better lie down for a bit. I don’t think I can stand to look at food for a while,” she mutters before heading back out into the living room. She flops onto the sofa and turns on the TV in an attempt to find something to take her mind off what she knows will be a few more hours of waiting. After a few minutes Enjolras, Cosette, and Tess also finish up lunch and join her; Tess immediately retreats to listen to more music in the reading nook while Cosette switches the channel to a good movie to pass the time with.  Enjolras busies himself with a little paperwork, but makes it a point to stay next to Eponine, rubbing her back from time to time or checking his own watch when she forgets to keep the time.  

It’s about five in the afternoon when at last Eponine feels a shooting pain in her stomach, enough to make her whimper and grab Enjolras’ hand so hard that her fingernails dig into his palm. “That was different,” she gasps as she looks to him and Cosette. “Closer this time.”

“Four minutes,” Enjolras remarks as he looks at his watch. He smoothes back her hair from her face and rubs her back once more. “I’ll get your bag. Wait here.”

Cosette quickly goes to check Eponine over, taking her pulse and prodding her abdomen gently before inspecting her friend’s skirt. “From the looks of it, I don’t think your water has broken. You have some time, just a little more,” she reports.

Eponine nods quickly. “Please.” Everything she’s ever read and learned about birthing is starting to race through her head, only at a pace that is more panic-inducing than assuring. ‘ _Anything can happen from here on. There isn’t exactly a thing as a routine delivery,’_ she tells herself as she gets her phone. “Chetta, things just sped up. Four minutes apart....” she says breathlessly when her friend picks up, only to stop and swear under her breath when another contraction hits. “No water yet though.”

“Don’t wait for it. Go now. I’ll meet you and Enjolras at Saint Michel in a while. Just in case I’m still endorsing your case to my resident on duty,” Musichetta replies calmly. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Eponine says. She glances at Tess, who has doffed her headphones and is now watching all of this cautiously. “If you need anything, just call or text.”

“Not likely,” Tess drawls, but a moment after her bored look changes to one of concern. “You’ll be okay Doc. You’ve got guts.”

“Thanks. I hope that’s enough.” Eponine smiles when Cosette gives her a thumbs up. “Thanks for coming. I know you have to get home to Marius and Elodie, but I’m glad you were here today.”  

“Mom is taking charge of Elodie. Marius is at Saint Michel today too, so I’ll meet him there,” Cosette replies, making it clear that she intends on accompanying her friends. “Do you want me to call anyone else, like Azelma and Gav?”

“Later,” Eponine answers as she turns to see Enjolras bounding down the stairs carrying an overnight bag as well as his camera. “I bet you cleaned out a memory card just for today.”

“To be more to the point I got a new one,” Enjolras says even as he quickly opens the front door and then hurries to help her into the front passenger seat of the car while Cosette hops into the backseat. He shakes his head as he checks the GPS on his phone. “It’s rush hour. We might have to take a roundabout route,” he warns.

“This is one time when no one will blame you for flooring the gas pedal,” Eponine quips as she buckles up. She takes a deep breath and bites her lip at the feeling of yet another stronger contraction that has her doubling over. ‘ _Will Ian be okay?’_ she wonders as she looks up to see the streetlights starting to flicker on all the way down the avenue leading to the main road.  While she has managed to carry this child just to term at thirty-seven weeks, it has not been enough to completely assuage her worries about her son’s welfare, not now when every fear she has harboured for much of this year now comes back in full force. ‘ _Anything can happen still,’_ she can’t help thinking as she takes deep breaths in an attempt to assuage the pain.

It takes twenty minutes till they reach Saint Michel Hospital, where they are immediately shown to the obstetrics complex on the ground floor. Enjolras and Cosette quickly go to the admissions desk while Eponine has to allow herself to be wheeled in by some interns into the examination room. A young resident is waiting there, setting out a speculum and a fetal heart monitor. “Good evening Doc E. I’m Mandy Torres, the obstetrics resident on duty,” she greets. “Doc Musichetta already called in; she’s on her way.”

Eponine nods as she manages to push herself onto the examination table and pull up her skirt. “They’re coming four minutes apart, three maybe,” she explains.

Mandy nods as she looks at the clock on the wall and then puts a hand on Eponine’s belly. “Faster by the looks of it. This is quick considering this is your first child.”

“I don’t take things slow,” Eponine gripes. It is all she can do to lie very still while allowing Mandy to perform her physical examination; as familiar as the motions are from her own basic medical training they are nothing but uncomfortable in this situation. “How far am I along?”

Mandy is quiet for a moment, as if she is checking something. “Eight centimetres.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m sure. We have to get you to the labor room right away, maybe even the delivery room.”

Eponine groans at this bit of news. “I’m not ready for this!” She pushes herself up on her elbows when she sees Musichetta enter the examination room. “This is going too fast! What are we going to do?”

“Ponine, please relax. That’s what you need to do right now. That thing about how fast labor should go for a first-timer is not a strict rule if you recall,” Musichetta chides as she also dons a pair of sterile gloves. “As for me, I can’t slow this down. What I _will_ do is my best to deliver your child safely,” she says firmly after examining her friend. “You need to work with me to make that happen.”

 Eponine swallows hard and nods, but that’s till she feels a gush of liquid right between her legs. It’s nearly enough to send her into a panic. “Where is Auguste?” she asks, looking to the door. “He’s supposed to stay with me!”

“I saw him outside. I told him to wash up and scrub in right away,” Musichetta explains even as she motions for Mandy and another attendant to bring in a stretcher. “I asked Cosette if she wanted to go in as well, but she said she’d fix your admission papers so that Enjolras can be here as soon as possible.”

Eponine nods with relief at this unexpected thoughtfulness. “I definitely owe her one.”

“Maybe next year you’ll get to repay the favor,” Musichetta quips.” By the way, just to give you a heads-up, I was home with Joly and Bossuet. They have probably texted everyone by now.  I’m pretty sure someone has already contacted your siblings and Ari too.”

“No one can keep a secret nowadays,” Eponine remarks as she moves to the stretcher, just managing to get there before a fierce contraction grips her body, leaving her unable to do more than scream and bury her face in the cushion for what seems to be an eternity. ‘ _I can’t do this!’_ she can’t help thinking but all the same she wills her hands to move, to get her out of her sodden clothes and into a clean hospital gown before lying back and holding on to the gurney’s side rails as she is wheeled to the delivery room. Through the building pain in her abdomen she can distinctly feel a terrifying pressure in her pelvis, compelling her to draw her legs up to allow the child to descend further. “He’s almost there....” she sobs.

“If you feel like pushing, just do it. It’s natural,” Musichetta reassures her before rushing off to also scrub in. “Mandy, you’re scrubbing in too!” she calls to her trainee.

“Go on. I don’t mind,” Eponine tells Mandy, seeing the younger doctor’s flustered and embarrassed expression. She can hear the distinct chatter of about a dozen or so voices in the obstetric complex’s waiting room, and she can’t help but chuckle weakly on catching Grantaire’s and Bahorel’s voices rising above this din. At length she catches sight of Enjolras waiting by the delivery room, anxiously adjusting the settings on his camera. “Haven’t seen you decked out like that since we were taking care of Elodie in the ICU,” she jokes, gesturing to the green scrub gown and hair net that he’s pulled on over his clothes.

“That was only last year,” Enjolras remarks as he assists her with getting comfortable on the delivery room table. He grabs her hands as she grimaces again. “Just relax. You’re doing great, Eponine.”

The pain is so great that his words barely register in her mind, and her next breath comes out as a shriek. “I can’t do this!” she cries, now nearly beside herself with agony. “You don’t even know how this feels like and getting shot doesn’t count!”

“That’s a rough comparison to make,” Musichetta calls as she and her trainee head into the room. Her eyes are mirthful as she takes in the sight of Eponine holding on to her partner’s hands as if for dear life. “Enjolras, are you still able to feel anything in your hands?”

“Somewhat,” Enjolras replies, keeping a straight face while he clenches and unclenches his fist. He steadies Eponine’s shoulders. “You’re going to be fine. It won’t be much longer,” he whispers in her ear. 

She shakes her head. “It hurts so much. I’m so tired!”

His eyes are contrite as he rubs her back once more. “I can’t imagine how it feels like. You’re right about that. I am certain about this one fact however,” he begins before helping her sit up again. “If anyone can do this, it’s you.”

Eponine closes her eyes, drawing comfort from these words even as she is now gripped by that urge to bear down.  Every effort is now suddenly focused on this one point, this task that lies entirely with her and yet is somewhat out of her control. She is vaguely aware of Enjolras’ hand on her arm as he steadily encourages her, as well as of Musichetta and Mandy at work. It takes five pushes till at last Eponine feels something slip out of her body. “Baby out at 7:30pm!” Mandy calls out. “It’s a boy!”

Despite these words the shock is so great such that all that Eponine can do is lie back and catch her breath, up till she hears an unmistakable high-pitched wail that cuts through the silence of the delivery room. “How is he?” she asks as she tries to sit up.

“He’s going to be fine,” Musichetta pronounces as she lays the baby in Eponine’s arms before quickly clamping and cutting the newborn’s umbilical cord. “You’ve got quite the little cherub here, Ponine.”

Eponine has to blink away tears as she cradles her son to her chest, revelling in the softness of his skin against hers. Suddenly all the trepidation of the past few months and especially of these recent hours fades away as she looks into his scrunched up, reddened face, and then counts his tiny fingers and toes. She looks at Enjolras, who is laughing and also swiping at his eyes, having forgotten altogether about taking any photos. “He’s here. I can’t believe it,” she murmurs.

Enjolras grins widely before bending down to give her a kiss and then to get a closer look at the baby. “Welcome to the world, Ian Charles,” he greets as he strokes the newborn’s cheek. “Everything is going to be fine from here?” he asks Musichetta.

“Naturally,” the obstetrician replies proudly as she looks up from checking her patient. “For a first time labor, this went well.”

“Thank you, Chetta. You’re awesome,” Eponine says gratefully. She looks down at Ian in time to see him open his eyes and blink as he starts rooting for her breast. “His eyes are blue. The same shade as yours,” she tells Enjolras.”They’ll stay blue, I know it.”

“He’ll take after you in other more important ways,” Enjolras replies. “I couldn’t ask for anything better.”

Eponine smiles and nods before adjusting her hold on their child. “You’re safe, Ian. We made it,” she whispers as she plants a kiss on the baby’s forehead. ‘ _And you always will be,’_ she promises silently, wanting nothing more now than for this particular wish to hold true.

 


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40: On Ties Less Tenuous**

It is a whole hour more before Eponine and Ian can be wheeled to their accommodations, while Enjolras ends up leaving by the wrong door. The instant he steps out of the delivery room complex he ends up mobbed by a crowd of enthusiastic family and friends. “Congratulations!” Combeferre greets as he clasps Enjolras’ arm. “How are Eponine and the baby doing?”

“Very well,” Enjolras replies with a smile. He’s sure that he’ll hear soon enough how these recent events have suddenly rendered him so laconic, but at this point that hardly matters. “They’re being brought upstairs to the room right now.”

Courfeyrac grins with relief. “That was really quick; faster than when Alex was born.”

“So you guys really got a son, right?” Gavroche jokes. “I heard from Navet that sometimes the kid gets tricky on ultrasound and it’s the parents who get _confused._ ”

Enjolras smirks while everyone else bursts out into laughter. “You definitely have a nephew---all seven pounds of him,” he deadpans. “We’re sticking with the name Ian.”

“Ian...Adrian...it’s just like our grandfather’s name,” Azelma comments. “Good man there.”

“What did he do?” Feuilly asks curiously.

“He was known as the king of bail-outs. That’s a long story,” Azelma drawls.  She grins as she checks her phone. “The Blakeneys send their regards, so do those friends of yours---de Chagny? And there are lots of other people liking Courf’s status message.”

“What did you write?” Enjolras asks, but the way that Courfeyrac is chortling has him deciding to save this inquiry for later. He checks his phone and sees even more status messages from the Fauchelevents, as well as Tess, Cecily, Ffoulkes, Mabeuf, and even his old friend from Port Town, Clopin. “Are you all going upstairs to visit?”

“Not for long. Visiting hours are almost up,” Combeferre says, glancing up at the clock which shows the time to be nearly nine in the evening. “Anyway we can simply drop by again tomorrow.”

Enjolras nods gratefully, knowing that this arrangement would allow some time for his family to get a little rest. ‘ _This too is something new,’_ he muses as he heads upstairs ahead of the rest of the group. Suddenly these familiar corridors have a whole new light to them, now that he is here for something other than fighting for a life. It is something more than relief, elation, or even bliss; in fact if he dares to put a word to it, _joy_ is the only one that even comes close.

When he quietly enters the hospital room he finds Eponine sitting up in bed, adjusting the neckline of her hospital gown. “I managed to get him to nurse a bit,” she whispers, glancing down to where Ian is safely snuggled in the crook of her elbow. “He caught on pretty quickly.”

“Of course he did,” Enjolras remarks proudly as he sits next to her and slips an arm around her waist. He smiles at Ian, who merely yawns before looking up at him with unfocused eyes. “Don’t tell your sister or Courf, but I think that our son is the most beautiful baby in the world,” he tells Eponine in a conspiratorial tone.

“Where do you think he got his looks?” Eponine quips as she lets Ian grab one of her fingers. “So who’s already here to visit?”

“Your siblings, as well as Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, Grantaire, Feuilly, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Florence, and Karen. You can guess that Cosette, Marius, and Combeferre have been here all this while,” Enjolras replies. It takes him a moment to realize that his mother wasn’t with this group but he decides to let that observation slide for now. “They should be here in a few minutes.”

“I ought to freshen up then,” Eponine sighs. “Could you hold Ian for a while then?”

“Are you sure? What if I drop him?” Enjolras asks incredulously.

“You _won’t_ drop him,” Eponine insists as she carefully places Ian in his arms and shows him how to support the baby’s head. “You’d be the last person I’d expect to do that.”

“I’m thankful that you trust me, but he is still rather small,” Enjolras mutters as he moves to let Eponine get her hairbrush from the bedside. All sorts of words come to mind now: vulnerable, delicate, and even fragile. However he only has to look at their son again to be reminded that this very same child has withstood all the terrors of the past few months, even before seeing the light of day. “You’re definitely a little fighter, Ian. Not that it’s entirely surprising,” he whispers as he adjusts the tiny knitted white bonnet covering the baby’s golden hair. To Enjolras’ surprise, Ian looks at him again, wrinkling his nose and narrowing his eyes in an expression that could almost be taken for one of recognition. “He can’t really see very much yet, I think,” Enjolras comments.

“Supposedly things are still a blur for newborns,” Eponine replies as she brushes out her tangled hair. “You know something though? He hasn’t stopped watching me, or you. He definitely recognizes us, our voices most especially.”

“So it would seem,” Enjolras says, remembering now the night after he had learned that his firstborn would be a boy. ‘ _I meant every word I said then, and more so today,’_ he thinks. The more pragmatic side of his mind of course warns against such promises, but he is not about to let that dissuade him from doing everything within his power and more to protect and care for his child.

Eponine turns at the sound of urgent knocking on the door. “I don’t look that hideous, I hope?” she asks worriedly as she smoothes out her hair and her clothing.

“Far from it,” he reassures her before handing back Ian just a moment before the door slams open to admit Grantaire, who makes a beeline for the washroom. “It would seem that boundaries have been forgotten today?” Enjolras asks as the rest of their guests all pile into the room.

“It’s nature. No one can argue with it, especially today,” Prouvaire quips.  He grins at Ian. “Good evening there, young man!” he greets before stepping aside to let everyone else ooh and ah over the child.

Gavroche groans when he peeks at his nephew. “Now that’s unfair. He’s Enjolras all over again, but all tiny and scrunched up!”

“I was about to say he looked like a little cherub but I guess you’re also right,” Cosette concurs. She smiles delightedly as she grabs Marius’ arm. “He’s so precious, don’t you think?”

Marius nods before motioning to Grantaire, who is just leaving the bathroom. “Come here and say hello to Ian,” he urges.

Grantaire grins, making it clear that he’s overheard the past conversation. “An angel indeed. I can’t say what sort though, there’s no Biblical verse for him.”

“What sort of angel he’s got the temper of---“Eponine begins before Ian starts whimpering in protest. She presses the baby to her chest and makes a shushing sound to try to calm him down. “You were a real guardian angel today, Cosette. I owe you one too.”

Joly waves to Musichetta, who is just entering the room. “Chetta! None of this would have been possible without you!”

Musichetta’s cheeks are flushed as she steps closer to the group. “I was just doing my best. Any of you would do the same for me if the tables were turned.”

“Not as well as you did!” Eponine points out. She glances down at Ian, who has now begun to doze off. “I guess this means we’ll see you all in the morning.”

Azelma gets to her feet, understanding this cue. “Come on guys. Most of you haven’t had to push out a several pound human from a small place.” She nods to her brother-in-law. “You’d better start taking shifts with my sister; that’s the only way you’ll all get through things till Ian sleeps through the night.”

“Advice taken,” Enjolras says. After a last round of congratulations everyone makes their goodbyes, all promising to come back as soon as they could the next day.  As soon as the door shuts Enjolras sees Eponine close her eyes and lay back down on the bed, keeping the baby at her side. “Should I get Ian again?” he asks in a whisper.

“Nope. He’ll be warmer here,” she murmurs, opening her eyes so she could adjust the blankets swaddling the child. “I think it helps calm him too.”

“That makes sense,” Enjolras notes even as he starts looking for the remote control to the air conditioner. After setting the temperature to a more comfortable level he pulls up a chair next to the bed. “Do you need anything more?”

Eponine shakes her head. “I’ll let you know.” She pulls him closer so that they are face to face before planting a kiss on his lips. “I love you, Auguste.”

He smiles before kissing her back. “Sleep now.” He lightly brushes a finger over Ian’s cheek, afraid to wake up the baby, but to his relief Ian hardly stirs and continues to slumber. It takes only a little while before exhaustion also catches up to him, such that he ends up dozing off right in the chair. He only gets disturbed thrice that night: twice by Ian waking up Eponine and crying to be fed, and a third time when he has to change the baby’s diaper.

The dawn finds him sleepless but far more alert than he expects to be. ‘ _Which is just as well,’_ he decides, seeing how soundly both Eponine and Ian are sleeping. He heads downstairs to the convenience store to get a toothbrush, a disposable razor, as well as some cereal and fruit for breakfast. As he walks back to the hospital room, he picks up on the cadence of a certain familiar laugh mingled with the low, raspy sound of Eponine’s voice. ‘ _This early?’_ he wonders as he quickens his steps. His eyes widen with surprise as he sees now who has just come to visit. “Good morning Mother.”

“Hello Auguste. I’m sorry I wasn’t here yesterday; I was out with some friends,” Ari greets from where she is seated by Eponine’s bedside. She is as impeccably groomed as ever, although her casual blouse and jeans betray the fact that she has clearly come from a long trip. “Should I have called first?”

“No, it’s fine,” Enjolras replies, seeing now that it’s past eight in the morning. It’s been a while since he’s slept in this long. “Where did you go?”

“A river cruise. You and Eponine should try it for a daytrip,” Ari replies. She smiles as she looks at her grandson, who is starting to stir and open his eyes sleepily. “He looks just like you did when you were born. A full head of hair, such a chubby face---everything except the dimples,” she tells her son.

“I take that is a good thing,” Enjolras remarks. “I brought some food, but if you’d like anything more I can always order in.”

Eponine grins on seeing some cereal in the purchases. “You brought some of my favourite stuff. I’ll just go to the bathroom first,” she says before gingerly getting out of bed. “This feels weird.”

“Don’t strain yourself too much, Eponine,” Ari warns. “I knew someone who fainted after her delivery, hit her head, and ended up extending her hospital stay.”

“Oh of course I’ll be careful,” Eponine replies, gesturing for Enjolras to stay in his seat instead of getting up to help her. “It’s not like I’m doing 12 hour OR time right away!”

Enjolras smirks at this comparison even as he reaches out to pick up Ian. “She’s tough. I don’t know how she does it,” he tells Ari as soon as Eponine has shut the bathroom door.

“A mother has to be,” Ari sighs as she puts her hands in her lap. “I wish I’d been that way when you were a baby. Then I wouldn’t have lost you.”

“Lost me?”  

“For so many years, I wasn’t much of a mother to you. I left you with nannies, and then you went off to school. I wish I hadn’t done that.”

It is more of the regret in his mother’s voice as opposed to her words that has Enjolras silent for a moment. “Other parents have done that too, for necessity’s sake,” he points out.

“It wasn’t necessary, not for us. It was not as if I had my own career to hold up; I was merely supporting your father in his business ventures. It was a good idea then, but in hindsight I would have done it differently,” Ari explains.  “I hope you understand that.”

Enjolras nods as he looks his mother in the eye. Even after all these months there is still much unsaid and unspoken for, and he figures that perhaps this will always be the case. ‘ _Not everything is set in stone though, which is why she is here,’_ he reminds himself. “It would be good if you could visit often, or if we could visit often. Maybe make a schedule of sorts,” he suggests at length.

“I should, considering I’ll probably be the only grandparent your son will get to know at this point,” Ari replies. She sighs once again and swallows hard. “I know you haven’t informed your father; you’re within your rights not to. I’m certain he knows though; word gets around fast on social media. He hasn’t said a word to me though. What about to you?”

“Nothing either,” Enjolras replies in a level tone.  That particular aspect is something he knows is closed, and will be perhaps for good. ‘ _Unless another miracle happens,’_ he thinks as he checks on Ian again, only to be met by a quizzical look. “Not just yet, Ian. There will be a time for such a word,” he whispers, knowing just how long the years can stretch before them.  


	41. Chapter 41

**Epilogue: The Years from Where We Stand**

“I’m glad you’ve come to work with us. There’s a lot to do but it’s always worth it.”

The young doctor grins gratefully as she gets to her feet. “Thank you for giving me this chance, Doc E. I’ll be here at seven-thirty on Monday,” she promises.

“I’m sure you will, Nancy,” Eponine says with a smile as she shows her junior colleague to the door. As soon as the door shuts she turns back to her desk and writes Nancy’s name on a post-it note, which she sticks onto a list marked ‘ _Social Interventions Officer of the Day’._ After six years of this office’s establishment there are now nine names on this rota. The sight has Eponine crossing her fingers, eagerly hoping for still more.

She checks her watch and finds the time to be already just before five in the afternoon. As quickly as she can she sorts and organizes the files from today’s patient interviews and documentation, and then locks them up in a drawer, to be encoded by the next day’s team. After making sure that she has stashed a box of gloves and a spare set of basic surgical implements in another drawer, she grabs her work tote from its place on a shelf. It may already be the end of hours full of casework and surgeries, but as far as she is concerned, the day isn’t quite done.

As she races down a side corridor past the hospital cafeteria she catches sight of Musichetta and Joly trying to extricate some snacks from a vending machine. “I thought you guys would already have signed out for the day,” she teases as she pounds on the machine’s front panel.

“Case conference,” Joly replies drolly. “The interns and residents admitted a patient with an unusual rash today, mimicking the malar rash we all know.”

“He had to stress at least five times during the conference that they were not looking at a case of lupus,” Musichetta supplies sympathetically.

“The joys of internal medicine,” Eponine quips. “Anyway I’ll see you both in a little while. Cosette and Marius said we should all be there at seven.”

“Ideally!” Musichetta laughs. “Good luck though for the rest of us except for Marius. He signed out early, after lunch of course.”

‘ _Now that’s someone who’ll beat the traffic,’_ Eponine muses as she bids her friends goodbye and then continues down the hallway. She stops at the end of the corridor, at a yellow door emblazoned with the words, “ _Junior Docs and Nurses Room’._ The silly moniker has her laughing even as she knocks on the door once and then pushes it open only to be greeted by the sight of a dozen youngsters playing catch or running about the playroom. “Ian! Ada!” she calls.

Immediately a golden haired boy jumps away from a kickball game while a tiny girl with raven pigtails tosses aside a large picture book. “Maman!” the boy shouts as he races his sister just to try to leap into their mother’s arms. “I was winning! I run fast fast than anyone!”

“Oh but the time for the game is over, Ian,” Eponine croons as she hugs her son and ruffles his curls before scooping up her daughter and kissing her forehead.  “You finished another book, darling? You were reading about bears when we were having lunch today.”

“She’s read two!” Ian chimes in.

Ada’s blue eyes widen with pride and glee as she nods enthusiastically. “Home?” she asks in a high-pitched voice.

“Not yet because we’re going to a party later. Mr. and Mrs. Fauchelevent invited all of us,” Eponine replies. “Your cousins will all be there too,” she adds more for Ian’s benefit.

Ian bounces excitedly at this news. “Darren said he’d teach me a new game,” he says cheerily.

“Maybe. It’s not the sort of party where you boys can run about. You might have to be quiet,” Eponine reminds him. She nods to the nurse in charge of the hospital day care center. “Thanks again for taking care of them.”

“I hardly have to do anything; you keep dropping in here all the time and besides they are such sweet children even when you’re away,” the nurse points out lightly. “Your little boy is such a charmer; all the other mothers keep fawning over him and wanting to pinch his cheeks.”

Eponine laughs when Ian buries his face in her leg, clearly embarrassed at this praise. “Come on, let’s go. We still have to meet your Papa at his office, and you know we have to drive to get there,” she says in an effort to coax him to let go of her knee so they could walk out to the parking lot. Halfway there she sets down Ada but makes sure to keep a hold on her chubby fingers; even at the age of two, this curious little girl has already gotten into the habit of running off or ahead to pursue whatever catches her interest. ‘ _Before I know it she’ll be asking questions that I can’t answer,’_ Eponine muses wryly as she buckles her children into the back seats.

As she drives down to the law office she has to keep a straight face throughout Ada’s slightly shrill renditions of her favourite nursery rhymes. She’s thankful that her present working arrangements, with more flexible hours and a day care facility on hand, allows her to share more of these moments with her children. ‘ _For now’_ she reminds herself; next year Ian will be starting at the first grade, which will certainly be quite an adjustment for their entire family. It’s something she cannot help being excited for, yet all the same wishing she could put it off a bit longer.

Ian cheers and practically wriggles out of his seatbelt as they pull up to the law office. “There’s Papa!” he shouts, pressing his face to the window.

Eponine grins as she parks the car and steps out. “Someone has had a good day at court,” she calls cheerily as Enjolras walks quickly across to the curb.

“More of a good argument,” Enjolras replies before kissing her soundly. “It’s still a long way till the verdict though,” he adds more seriously but all the same there is that unmistakable resolve mingled with optimism in his tone. “And you?”

“Things are looking up,” Eponine says, knowing that he’ll be glad to hear later that she has an additional trainee to help with her work. She opens the backseat door to allow Ian and Ada to rush out and greet their father after their own fashion, which is to basically climb all over him. The sound of their laughter is so pure and unsullied in a way that lifts her spirits, more so when she sees how Enjolras’ smile brightens in turn.  “They missed you all day,” she tells her husband as she picks up Ada again before she can throw him completely off balance.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow as he hoists Ian onto his hip. “How so?”

“I told all the other boys that my Papa fights scary bad guys, and that he could do anything,” Ian brags.   

Eponine giggles and shakes her head. “You’ve been listening to your uncles’ stories, haven’t you?”she asks, receiving an impish grin as an answer. Only their friends could make legal battles sound like heroic exploits, but then again who is she to deny the truth in these matters? ‘ _There will certainly be more tales to tell and retell tonight,’_ she thinks as she and Enjolras settle their children safely into the backseat for the drive down to the Cathedral of Our Lady of Grace.

Despite their best efforts to bypass the rush hour traffic they only manage to get to a tent in the church grounds just five minutes before seven pm.  Enjolras immediately looks around for a place to sit only to find Combeferre and Florence waving to him. “It would appear that they have saved us seats,” he remarks.

Eponine nods gratefully as she and her family slide into a bench that is already occupied on one side by Combeferre, Florence, and their twin sons Thomas and Eugene. “How did you beat the traffic?” she asks her colleague incredulously.

“We met halfway, and I drove,” Florence says proudly. “Come on boys, go greet your uncle and your aunt---- never mind!” she mutters on seeing her children as well as Ian scamper to the back of the tent in some strange game of theirs. “A good thing I didn’t force them into suits!”

“I think that only Elodie and Darren are old enough to properly manage it,” Eponine remarks, glancing towards the tent entrance, where these two youngsters are signing to each other as well as to two blonde little girls. At fifteen years old Elodie is already very much a young lady in a coral pink dress, while Darren has somehow managed to keep his coat and tie from getting dirty. Elodie’s younger sisters Layla and Mina are also dressed up, but have gotten their attire rumpled in the way that only a four year old and a three year old could manage.

It is at that moment that she hears her phone beep with a newly received message. ‘ _Hey Doc look over here!”_ the text reads. Eponine glances to where Tess has just entered the tent. She is dressed in an elegant pantsuit but she is lugging an overnight bag. “Looks like someone just got off the plane,” she muses aloud.

“All the way from Bangkok?” Combeferre asks, looking quite surprised.

“Tess wouldn’t miss this either, not even if it kills her,” Eponine concurs as she lets Ada scramble up onto her lap. It has been a long road for their young friend, involving quite a bit of soul searching leading up to a decision to take up management courses and eventually accept a job out of the country. There is little of that bitter girl left in Tess’ mien; the woman joining this celebration is nothing short of self-possessed and proud to tell her own story.  Just looking at her further buoys Eponine’s conviction that to have gone to that halfway house and later, to have let this girl into her home had been more than just a right decision.

“Considering that this isn’t just about the Fauchelevents renewing their vows,” Enjolras chimes in.

“Oh you know we’d all take an excuse to get together,” Eponine quips. By now she can see Azelma, Courfeyrac and their daughters Alexandra and Amelie, all listening to Gavroche, Jehan and Grantaire regaling them with some outlandish tale. Feuilly is bouncing Bahorel and Karen’s baby son Oliver on his knee, while the parents of this particular infant are caught up in a conversation with Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta. ‘ _All of us, and so many others,’_ she thinks, noticing how many of the Fauchelevents’ other friends have all gathered in this place. The sight of this crowd is heart-warming; if anyone ever deserves this, it’s the t two people who have made hr and so many others feel like friends, or dare she say it, even family.

After a moment Cosette and Marius make their appearance, looking quite harried. “Party planning issues?” Eponine asks.

Cosette nods. “Thank heavens that a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary is a onetime thing,” she whispers before signing for her daughters to take their seats.

Marius cups his hands to his mouth. “The organist is here. Everyone settle down please!”

Cosette bursts out laughing at Marius’ antics, and squeezes his shoulder before she stands on tiptoe. “Papa is at the front of the tent, thank goodness.”

“And your mother is waiting outside,” Marius says. “Are you sure about this?”

“She’d like nothing better than for you to walk her down the aisle---no one walked her down the aisle then!” Cosette says.

Enjolras shrugs bemusedly at this scene. “Is that necessary at a renewal of vows? I didn’t even know till a few weeks ago that such a thing was an actual ceremony.”

“Each to his own.” Eponine laughs as she squeezes his hand. The way that he always is so in awe and so sure about the world around them is part of why life with him is anything but dull. “When it’s our turn, Auguste, I won’t make it so elaborate,” she jokes.

Enjolras’ smirk grows wider as he bends to kiss the back of her ear. “Thinking that far already, aren’t we?”

“With you? Always,” Eponine replies, certain now that they will get to this point and even further on.


End file.
